David Subacchi - Poems

DAVID SUBACCHI   POET  (david.subacchi@tiscali.co.uk)
David Subacchi was born in Wales (UK) of Italian roots and has three published collections of poems. ‘First Cut’ (2012), ‘Hiding in Shadows’ (2014) and  Not Really a Stranger (due in May 2016).
His Blog is at   http://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/davidsubacchi
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                               CROSSMAGLEN
 
Watching the footage now it seems dated
The dull colours of old camera lenses
The flat caps of farmers behind fences
Waiting at the road blocks that they hated
Posh voiced army officers interviewed
And working class squaddies with sharp senses
Fearing the trigger finger that tenses
Keep all their answers uncomplicated.
 
High above a helicopter whirring
Drowns out the shouts of young children playing
A priest in dark clothing walks past praying
We fail to hear the words he’s saying
This is bandit country someone explains
Where no last trace of innocence remains.
 
 
                             BECAUSE
 
Because there is no heartbeat
Because his limbs are still
But yet warm to the touch
There is only silence
He lingers between two worlds
On the edge of a precipice
Losing balance slowly
While we hope that strong arms
Will catch him
And that angels wings
Will give him shelter.
 
Because there is no life
Because it is all used up
Mostly for our sakes
There is a quiet trembling
Amongst the machinery
And the smell of disinfectant
It is a turning point
Without his guidance
To give us confidence
Every tick of the clock
Predicts our own passing.
 
Because of the stillness
Because of the silence
There is a vacuum
Waiting to be filled
With our despair
Or our perseverance
So we pray that daylight
Breaking through the blinds
Will illuminate our hope
And not expose our
Desperation.
 
 
                   WAITING FOR A HURRICANE
 
 In early hours we lie
 With windows slightly open
 Listening to rainfall
 Waiting for a hurricane.
 
 When it comes
 We will close
 All openings vulnerable
 To a draught.
 
 Until then
 Dripping water
 And passing cars
 Hypnotise.
 
 When it arrives
 We know little
 Can be done
 To stop the wind
 
 Wrecking fences,
 Displacing slates
 And tearing felt
 From roof tops.
 
 But we wish
 To be awake
 To face its coming
 With defiance.
 
 So we lie together
 Bodies trembling
 Breath rising and falling
 Waiting for a hurricane.