Will Vigar

a writer of sorts

Aurochs (Irish Sea)

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Through the trees, a rum tang 

of brine encroaching; a brackish 

lick insinuates itself into a bed 

 

of coarse reeds that wither  

with its saline sting. Aurochs  

sensing their time is almost gone  

 

move to higher ground for one  

last summer; impassive as the waters 

take the forest with a creeping whelm. 

 

Then – long gone – a dead Atlantic  

squall reveals their bones  

and the sky-grasping stumps  

 

of their broken sanctum that beg  

for their sunken exile to end.  

In the weary sulphurous air, ankle  

 

deep in alluvium and laver, tripping  

between brine steeped trunks, pacing  

through lost wealds that weep  

 

at the temporary deluge passing,  

I see no sign of the land beyond  

the aurochs copse. No Atlantis  

 

or Cantre’r Gwaelod; no Tír na nÓg 

or even Narnia. Their fragile magic  

lost with the passing of the herd. 

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