Will Vigar

a writer of sorts

Bridge

Untitled-3Fat land, moss wadded, pushes

against my feet, carrying me

 

to the bridge; held in the scent

of warm brine and red fescue.

 

Swaddled by wind fingers, I lean

over the stone span, beguiled

 

by silver motion beneath

wave distorted surface – flowing

 

between aviary islands – notched

scales in teeming murmuration.

 

A bridled guillemot skims

the liquid veneer until

 

the inevitable spill

breaks its argent tension.

 

Somnolent scales separate

in a myoclonic dive for survival.

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