August 6, 2013
I hadn’t walked the Genehouse walk for a few days because of a bad blister. Change was everywhere, notably at the top of Stroke Hill on Stanka Lane (I named it Stroke Hill because it is a mile and a half climb up a steep hill, and shall take me home to Mother one day), the farm on the west side of the road. There was a huge fairy ring of mushrooms, twenty feet in diameter, the fungi softball size, in the yard.
My Scottish ancestors wrote this poem, warning mortals who enter such a ring:
‘He wha tills the fairies’ green
Nae luck again shall hae:
And he wha spills the fairies’ ring
Betide him want and wae.
For weirdless days and weary nights
Are his till his deein’ day.
But he wha gaes by the fairy ring,
Nae dule nor pine shall see,
And he wha cleans the fairy ring
An easy death shall dee.’
I don’t trespass in this age of gunsels and conceal-carry cowboys. But I’m tempted to go to the ring tonight and see what I can see. I lack imagination; perhaps I could steal some by starlight.
Or, dee an easy death.
