Folk Suburb #2

In the moment you are tired, dog-tired, but near no bed; when one world oscillates with another, and another one can be magicked, accessed through the tired sight of one object, the smell of one some thing, the temperature of something, that is when the folk suburb reveals itself: in the right circumstances, like catching the fairy ring occupied.

Beyond tired, I buy a packet of Tooti Frootis from the newsagents, to get change for something.  I bite a purple one and immediately I see a corner, clearly.  On my right side quiet, semi-detached houses, their small leaded panes reflecting unevenly the whitish light in the silence.  And a privet, in an unfelt breeze.  I know someone who lives in one.
But then opposite rises this giant suburb-megalith.  They came to the high castle where my lord he was sitting at meat.  "If you did but know what news I brought not one more mouthful would you eat,"  "What news have you brought?  Is my castle burning down?"  "Oh, no, your true love is very very ill and she'll die before ever you can come."  But then opposite rises this suburb-megalith, giant stone wall, grey, broken by a coach arch and a single doorway.  Like a castle wall.  Above this door, is a look out window, or a lantern window: its glass, in the aspect facing me, red; a red film or paint, peeling.
"Saddle me my milk-white horse, and bridle him so neat.  That I may kiss of her lily lips that are to me so sweet."
What callers found themselves watched from that window?  The place is occupied now by a mysterious Oz-like doctor, who, if he practises at all, practises a Victorian medicine, with Victorian instruments.  But the window is already now disused.  All kinds of spirits jostle.  Carts, and horses and bicycles pass; beneath it.  Before the suburb arrived, surrounding it with privets and ornamental cherries.  The last bone-shaking rider has passed, out of the village.
They saddled him his milk-white steed at twelve o'clock at night.  He rode, he rode till he met six young men with a corpse all dressed in white.  The roof is not visible, nor any building behind the wall.  A cloud passes another shadow across the wall and a woman in a pac-a-mac walks out of the arch.
Then the sweet is finished, and the wall; and with it passes the street, and the wall disintegrates
once more.

Postscript: I passed the original of this at the weekend and was astonished at its smallness - I remember it as high; featureless.  It is now hemmed by 90s houses.  It does retain the two X ceiling supports (I suppose they are) which I had forgotten in the earlier picture, but were definitely there.