An Insubstantial Thing

Not the Forth Bridge.
A bare necessity in Meccano, for the mills of fairy folk spinning cobwebs.
The unlikely spring, insinuated from the sheepy hill and across the railway line. An essay in the pleasures of the diminutive, LNWR style.

The Bridge

Here is a bridge undone by the light. A moment's inattention revealed the film and the express from Manchester, the horse feed buckets and the rusty rivets succumbed to a pocket sunset. A dandelion in the ruby shadow, the pink hill and the orange trees drowned in foolishness and the long walk along the canal and up the steps all redness and gilt.