Tom Wiggins, Letter Carver & Writer

As you dig your hole, I can believe the Spine- Tingling, Mind- Altering, Mouth- Watering, Earth- Shattering Explosion of dimensions. I do not judge; What Is fine By You Is fine By Me, But this hole - When it comes Right Down To It – Is Just That: Your Finger Nails Are Scratchcard Stumps, Dead ends.

She’s in possession! Shouts her commentators Seventy minutes gone Ten to go Of a big rugby game The opposition   Are edging ahead Suddenly The maul tide turns A great shift of energy inside the pile of men And the ball Is turned over And the opposing team has it And with it They break. (A very male perspective Of the birthday woman Who’s starkers single - Not even the faintest wave Of a man on the horizon. She needs the pain; Wants to know it, Willing to risk Post-natal whatever As a forty candle salute - In the absence of a child’s Tip-toed effusion In which lungs contract To two sun-dried shrivels -   Allows an adult’s Laboured breath To breathe a wish free.)

It was that first scream that came to pierce the water, snapping away the beauty of his crime.  A second later, wading legs jostled fruitlessly in twos, shouts mere muffles from beneath.  The figure, anchored still, had been looking up from his lagoon bed, his body relaxed as the pump and valves worked so delicately to a stop, his breathing set to a bubbling whisper.  He shared a polite word with the bright blue above: a promise, perhaps.                                                                                           ...