Will Vigar

poet. writer. imposter.


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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