Will Vigar

A Writer of Sorts

Seeds

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With the battle lost, the remnants,

ground down, were used

as hardcore for roads, built

to bolster shiny new tram lines

that rush people past the ‘dozer

razed haunt, with a nonchalant hum.

 

The citadel sacked – while no one

watched – and sold. Remnants

became souvenirs deemed ‘perfect

for your rock garden needs.’ The rest,

in pieces, waits; prisoners of war held

in a landfill site in Beighton.

 

I dreamed of its rubble as seeds

cemented in an unkempt allotment,

waiting for the right conditions

– in a far future spring – to battle

the weeds, to break through

their interred kernels and bolt.

 

The first tentative sprout of mewling

bungalow nurtured into the thin hormonal

foliage of a sapling maisonette; the hirsute

forest of executive apartments dressed

in cosmetic designer opulence, and finally

into pullulating maturity, their lime rendered

 

castellations crowning the luscious, deck-access

palace. Its place in legend assured.

 

 

 

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