Will Vigar

A Writer of Sorts

Laithe

laithe

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.

 

***

A work in progress…. another farm reminiscence that verges on the mawkish and has some complex syntax structures.  Sounds ace when read out loud, but reads weird. I seem to think… anyway. “Laithe” is Yorkshire dialect for ‘barn’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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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