Ceinwen E. Cariad Haydon has worked as a Probation Officer, a Mental HealthSocial Worker and Practice Educator. She lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been published on web magazines and in print anthologies. These include Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Alliterati, Stepaway, Poets Speak (whilst they still can), Three Drops from the Cauldron, Obsessed with Pipework, Picaroon, Amaryllis, Algebra of Owls, Write to be Counted, The Lake and Riggwelter . She completed her MA in Creative Writing at Newcastle University in August 2107 and graduated in December 2017.
Every day you play with the light of the universe. Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water. You are more that this white head that I hold tightly as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.
You are like nobody since I love you. Let me spread you out among the yellow garlands. Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
Suddenly the wind howls and bangs my shut window. The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish. Here all the winds will let go sooner or later, all of them. The rain takes off her clothes.
The birds go by, fleeing. The wind. The wind. I can contend only against the power of men. The storm whirls dark leaves and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.
You are here. Oh you do not run away. You will answer me to the last cry. Cling to me as though you were frightened. Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.
Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle, and even your breasts smell of it. While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.
How you must have suffered against getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times have we seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwind in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you. A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body. I go so far as to think you own the universe. I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.