Will Vigar

a writer of sorts

Hastings Beach 1974



Ignoring the arguments and the cigarette fug,

I rub the condensation from the window.

It won’t be long before white noise stops

its sibilant assault on roof and windscreen.


Rolling down the window, just a crack,

to breathe in fresh salt air with a sad veneer

of vinegar sharpness, wet chips, boiled whelks.

The weather-thwarted seaside treat plays out


as it always has.


I drown the sibling tantrums out; slot machines

are not that important. I’m content enough

to sip Heinz Tomato Soup from the plastic

top of a well worn Thermos flask and lose myself


in the relentless beauty

of raging, murderous waves.

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This entry was posted on March 20, 2016 by in Poem, poem of the day, Poetry, Will Vigar and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , .
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