Will Vigar

a writer of sorts



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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