Will Vigar

poet. writer. imposter.



With the battle lost, the remnants,

ground down, were used

as hardcore for roads, built

to bolster shiny new tram lines

that rush people past the ‘dozer

razed haunt, with a nonchalant hum.


The citadel sacked – while no one

watched – and sold. Remnants

became souvenirs deemed ‘perfect

for your rock garden needs.’ The rest,

in pieces, waits; prisoners of war held

in a landfill site in Beighton.


I dreamed of its rubble as seeds

cemented in an unkempt allotment,

waiting for the right conditions

– in a far future spring – to battle

the weeds, to break through

their interred kernels and bolt.


The first tentative sprout of mewling

bungalow nurtured into the thin hormonal

foliage of a sapling maisonette; the hirsute

forest of executive apartments dressed

in cosmetic designer opulence, and finally

into pullulating maturity, their lime rendered


castellations crowning the luscious, deck-access

palace. Its place in legend assured.





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