Ivy

by David Subacchi

Slowly it crept up from the drain,
Spiny fingers feeling out cracks
In the crumbling stone wall
That blocked daylight
From the rear of our home.

Tantalisingly it displayed
Green and yellow flowers
With small petals,
Fruit ripening from late winter
Into mid spring.

Hungrily birds dispensed its seed,
Gobbling berries,
Joined by the ivy bee
That exists only
For this purpose.

And when fearful of collapse
We tore away
The winding water supply,
It clung even tighter
To the dark surface

Desperate to survive,
Indignant at our ignorance
Of its ecological
Importance.
Protesting innocence.

Forest Fire

by David Subacchi

The smell of burning pine comes first
Before black smoke columns
Twisting  upwards
Appear on the horizon

And even at a distance
A warmth is felt
Warning of danger
And flushing the cheek.

Summer brings
The picnic people
Discarded smokes
Bored souls

Experimenting
Under cover
Of the timber
Cathedrals

Lighting candles
Before wooden images
Igniting passions
Mistaking trees for gods.

Clywedog Trail

by David Subacchi

From Minera’s dark lead mines to Kings Mills
Nine miles of footpath for relaxation
To be followed without hesitation
Along the river, through the North Wales hills.
Here where sweet birdsong the countryside fills
Iron was once made, first in the nation
When John Wilkinson was at his station
Forging his great girders, hammers and drills.

Now at Nant Mill ancient woodland stands
With later planted beech and sycamore
And on Erddig’s gardens a white dove lands
Undisturbed by the fiery furnace roar
Now we walk Clywedog Trail in silence
Free from dark smoke and industrial violence.

Hidden Madness

by David Subacchi

In Wales a hundred years back
They mined lead
Beneath mountain pasture
With summer sunlight kissing
The farm animals
Of scattered holdings
Or wintry snow coverings
During the cold months
The shining, lively water
Dancing in streams.

And they made pipes
To carry the water
To homes far and near
Spreading the hidden madness.

Wasting Potatoes

by David Subacchi

Conformity and consistency
By words of mass production.
The harvesting machine
Wastefully leaves to rot
The too large or too small
For failing to meet
The ‘Supermarket Standard’.

Before mechanization
Eager hands picked
Potatoes of every size.
Food for hungry mouths
Unconcerned with uniformity.
The same still in those lands
Not yet reached by exploitation.

Ceno

by David Subacchi

Rising on the opposite side of Monte Penna
To Taro, your more powerful partner
You join its stronger flow later
On the left bank of Fornovo
In Italy’s Emilia Romagna
From there only a tributary
Your entire length is confined
Within the province of Parma

In temperament like my people
Lazy in summer, fierce in winter
Always struggling for attention
To demonstrate your worth
Against the competition.