Will Vigar

poet. writer. imposter.



‘You live in your bloody head far too much,’

said Dad, ‘get into the world; away from

all those damned books and fancy. We’re building

an orchard’ – in the eastern paddock where

we had hand-raised the winter orphaned lambs;

mothers frozen, exhausted after a


hard labour in the top field. I had seen

forty five saplings, their roots shivering

in the lazy Swale winds, lined up against

the Anderson; waiting for the cold kiss

of fresh dug loam. Petulant and without  

the maternal warmth of the kitchen stove,


I stabbed at steeped turf with rusty auger,

making box string homes for stupid fucking

fruit trees.  A bare smile passed as he saw pride –

unexpected –  in my soil caked face. Arm

now slung round my shoulder, that brief look

hung like old telegraph wires; pregnant with


unseen information. Before the first shy

blossom showed, the farm had been sold

and developed. Box string starters for

stupid fucking people, unmoved by wild

romances of unruly North Riding

orchards; the beacon that called me home to


bitter Allerton wapentake winters.


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This entry was posted on October 19, 2016 by in Poem, poem of the day, Poetry, Will Vigar and tagged , , , , , , , , , , .
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