It will not be long now until dandelions have strangled the black ground beneath them and no traces remain save for the props and the poison filling up the cavernous belly of the carcass slain by a fortyfaced dragon bent on revenge. It will not be long now until nobody is left who remembers the batons, the charge of the Clydesdales, the breaking of faces, the making up of statements and the smashing of hope. It’s a long road downhill from there until here, from strength in a union to begging for help on your nil-hour contract. From pickets and pigs and men of millstone grit to a country where even police stations are sold off. It will not be long now until, battered and lonely, we have allofus forgotten how to even ask questions. We are all still mining, only now we are picking holes in the hull that keeps us barely afloat. Playing Blame Thy Neighbour as the saltwater scours its way around the finery we cannot make good. And the higher the water, the faster we scramble upon each other’s shoulders for a better vantage point. Folklore: a dreamed place where the past isn't real and we tell eachother tales of fantastical happenings that no one really believes. Harry Gallagher
