Folk Suburb #4

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.

In the evening after dark, the blackleg miner creeps to work, with his moleskin trousers and dirty shirt, there goes the blackleg miner!  As I was walking home from work, wagtails were wandering the pavement, the striped hands of crocus leaves heading for the light of dusk, and the blackbird sang its song the same colour as the branches it was on.  When out of one house came a smell of meat and gravy - just like that; there was something about the gravy, or the meat, or the gravy and the meat, that was transportingly of Brain's faggots, and gravied chips, out of the chip shop, in a past similar end of dusk, when the very clouds smelt of drizzle.  Walking home from a school cross country.
Away across the school field where I had shivered in a yellow vest waiting to start the race, was this falling Camelot into disrepair.  I see it now, as I ignored them then, these many, these tucked away, small, condensation wet and drizzly forgotten things of small industry in small farmer's fields.
When young, we played around the bricks and stones as sure in our own minds that these were castles, not mines, like on the public information films before Grandstand; a cross in the country of magick and safety.
Don't go near that mine: across the way they've stretched a line to catch the blackleg miner. To catch the throat and break the spine, of that dirty blackleg miner.

Then, the walking has taken me away from the smell and drizzle, and the image is holdable no longer.

(In passing, I understand this particular mine engine house has been tidied up, and now stars in a bit of landscape in the development mentioned in Folk Suburb #3.)