The Academi Cardiff International Poetry Competition

Building the Alder Fence

First they set off to fetch the alder. It’s a long slow
walk up to the woods and over
the top of the hill and down
towards the marsh where the alder grow.

A long walk for men who sit all day and drink
and eat dry bread and herring,
fresh curd maybe, then sleep.
Sometimes you’ll see them, lying in the stink

of their own piss out there in the chill
waiting for the mind to clear.
It takes the better part of the morning
to reach the marsh. Then they will

decide on branches that fit their purpose best, divide
them into lengths, slice off leafy twigs,
so not till late afternoon do they each
sway back under an armful. No ride,

no tractor, not even a horse to quicken
their pace through the woods.
their gait is just as slow as when they left,
never one step faster than

the next. but not as straight. They seem now in no rush
to build the fence
and when they’ve wrenched and pulled
and woven or forced a few green saplings flush

with the rest, they’re done. Eyes focussing on the distance,
they huddle on the village bench, vodka
tilting, fence unfinished,
job forgotten. That is the urgency.

Kolodno, Eastern Poland