Alderley Edge

From goldenstone the shy sun fills the vale with swathes of light and the mistle thrush, her song catches in my throat for it is all as the words climbed aloft and made true. Some things are real my loves, some things are real. Over beacon hill, draped in oak and beech with squirrels in every bole and my shadow caught in the Devil’s grave. Onwards and upwards, for I must find the iron gates and whisper ‘Emalagra’ and if they will not open there is Holy well and copper pennies, bright as stars. Fallen logs are dragons here, it is their right, and none climb the hill after dark. An elfmade wall holds back the rhodendrons and the Morthbrood, and Her. I am often alone, up on Saddlebole with a touch of fear in my toes and the Wizard warns me not to drink the water. This is the Edge.