Will Vigar

poet. writer. imposter.

Aurochs (Irish Sea)


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 auroch’s 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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