Will Vigar

poet. writer. imposter.

Fish Wife

trawlerMore Grimsby stuff.  Not sure why Grimsby is holding a sudden fascination, but you go where the inspiration is, I guess.




He climbs from the deck

past reeking holds,

the choke of ammonia

and week old sweat

making him gack.


I see the skin on his palms

and fingers – torn and raw.

Capillaries broken,

in his fleshy cod cheeks,

from sub-arctic cold

and an over abundance

of rum.


He sees the note in hasty,

thready ink that condemns

the town and two

thousand boats.


He shudders,

shoulders jumping,

and I know he wishes

he’d listened at school.



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This entry was posted on February 10, 2017 by in Poem, poem of the day, Poetry, Will Vigar and tagged , , , , , , , .
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