They Don’t Last Long Here
They don’t last long here
Walking on wet leaves
The impatient traffic
Pinning them back
Then pushing them rudely
Into untrimmed hedges
Their faces are crimson
Weather or whisky beaten
It’s impossible to tell
Spitting out the vowels
Of their ancient language
Choking on rainfall
All around are the farms
Scattered across
An unforgiving landscape
Splattered with mud
Of beast and tractor
No prosperity here
For tenant or labourer
Even the small landowners
Capped and dressed in tweeds
Biting hard on smouldering pipes
Dream of government grants
Or winning prizes
At the Royal Welsh Show
They don’t last long here
A lifetime of cutting wood
To burn in damp cottages
Of turning out for funerals
In the crowded chapel
The grim pat of the shovel
On the soil of their forefathers.
David Subacchi lives in Wrexham, North Wales. He was born in Aberystwyth of Italian roots and Cestrian Press has published two collections of his poems. First Cut (2012) and Hiding in Shadows (2014). He is a member of Chester Poets and Liverpool’s Dead Good Poets. www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/davidsubacchi