Will Vigar

poet. writer. imposter.

On Visiting Alderley Edge in the Hope of Finding a Wizhard


I wanted to follow in their footsteps –

inhaling the clean filth of leaf mould.

Terror and adrenalin giving scent

to the enemy; to be “relentlessly

pursued by outlandish creatures.”

Then, when all hope was lost, to hear

the gates roar as they opened

to a world of pale blue flame and milk

white mares but I’m lost

on the Wizards Path – tricked

by svart alfar- and trying to reconcile

the convergent memories

of book and prior pilgrimage.

I remember my last communion

at the well as sodden and solemn

in a hollow – the focus of a grove.

Opaque sun percolating through

fat drizzle – protected by the trees

– a wall of stone behind, funnelling

us into adventure.

But the claustrophobic bole

of my misremembered landscape,

is an open outcrop, exposed to the skies,

battered by wind. Its naked wildness

emasculated by plastic safety fencing;

an unwelcome barrier between scarp

and prospect. The ghost of a wizard,

my Wizard, once bold, clean cuts in the rock,

have eroded; neglected. His stilted welcome –


         “Drink of this and take thy fill,

          for the water falls by the Wizhard’s will”


all but gone; sandstone grit, weather-ground

from the face and words of a childhood

paragon, chases along runnels

and dissolves into legend.

A video performance is available clicking THIS link


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