Will Vigar

poet. writer. imposter.

Sub Iove

i - Two
The first phrase I spoke 
was in awe of the storm. 
As the sky tore ablaze,
my eyes widened 

and I pointed to the clouds. 
With tiny voice, I described
 the scene unfolding, 
as fully as my vocabulary 

would allow. ‘Pretty lights,’ 
I said, ‘pretty lights,’ came 
an echo with a smile attached, 
and we watched until I slept.
ii - Seven
The aspen in the garden trembled 
in charged air, scared perhaps 
of the oncoming storm. Recognising
the signs, I took my position 
on the windowsill and waited 
for the rumbling and dagger show.
Fat thunder surged but refused 

to give up its light; tension mounted 
and the sky, accumulating, finally
found its release shattering 
the pebbled crusted concrete post 
mere feet from my vantage. Consumed
by blue/white brilliance that dissipated 
along the now angry glowing wires; 

humming, whining with primal hate. 
The aggregate released flew and broke 
the window in a spray of ragged bullet 
holes. I ran to the safety of the dalek-free 
space behind the sofa, feeling bitter 
and betrayed by my pretty, pretty lights.

iii – post

When the rain passed and the air no longer
splintered, I touched the still warm stump. The fence
wires, melted and misshapen - slag scabs now frozen
mid-drip - made me wonder what we had done
to deserve this theatre of electric wrath.  I looked
at the clouds, now cracked open with cobalt hue,
and apologised to the sky.


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This entry was posted on September 5, 2022 by in creative writing, Poem, poem of the day, Poetry, Will Vigar and tagged , , , , , , , , , .
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