Will Vigar

poet. writer. imposter.



The far barn was off limits;

a mantra drummed into us

from the day we moved in.

No access to be had beyond


the rotting stiles and snow

weathered paint that flaked

like falling sycamore keys

into black silage tea.


Slinking through the shadows

to dry rib doors with rust crackled

hinges and into charcoal gloom.

A steel arachnopolis of derelict


tractors and combineds resolves

as eyes adjust to a glut of dull

blades threatening to shiv,

as winter brittle sun bayonets


dust and gloam. Breath – misted –

wheezes from behind grey

stone wall and – curious – I pass

between web and trembling


shank to its forlorn source.

The stud bull, body crammed,

into a cell; too small. Job done,

abandoned until spring.


Head and horns stretch for

the elusive lambent shard,

brown eyes glaring.  Gently

cooing, I reach to stroke his


brow. He starts and yawps, unused

to contact; confused by a moment

of caring.  I knew better than

to open his pen and instead, turned


and pulled at the corrugated iron

holding the brittle laithe door together;

flooding his cell with sunshine

and fresh breeze. Eyes now closed,


he basks.












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This entry was posted on August 28, 2017 by in Poem, poem of the day, Poetry, Will Vigar and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , .
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