Will Vigar

poet. writer. imposter.



There was a time when a small shack,

– unused in decades – stood here, shaking

under a barrage of wind and hail;


door barely hanging on by it’s friable

rust devoured hinges; charged

with the reek of leaf mould


and rotting hare. So moved by

the desolation I vowed to spend

my retirement ekeing out a living


in the renovated bothy, content beneath

my hanging valley, to watch the nearby

island county shine in winter duskfall.





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