4 poems by featured poet, Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

    Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon: Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been published in web magazines and in print anthologies. She graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University in 2017.
    With your tongue, like that.
    Starlings chattered in the yard,
    gentle pulses lipped the warm air
    and bouillabaisse boiled over
    downstairs. I came so soon.
    You hardly touched me.


    Light floods and folds,
    and parts the shadows,
    reveals the functional flasks
    laced by beams. Bottles,
    chaste, charcoal edged vessels,
    are tight-bound through dark strokes
    or scythed apart
    by bright and slender spaces.
    Your flame seeks pits and cracks,
    shifts and shapes proportions,
    moulds kindred, friends or foes,
    Alliance or misalliance 
    Extinguished by dawn, your squat stub
    falls and lies on frozen clay.
    Ice, they say, preserves lost forms. 




    From dizzy Big Top heights
    she topples from the tightrope
    and falls freestyle to the floor.
    The crowd roars furnace words,
    breath and fear buffet her
    to hover on lift air
    and save her seconds before –
    I wake in strangled sheets
    wet with sweat and reach out
    to touch your empty place
    the space from which you fell
    without warning.

    [Lift is the force that directly opposes the weight of an aeroplane and holds the plane in the air]


    Strange Bed-fellows                                                       

    after Olive in ‘Olive Kitteridge’ by Elizabeth Strout

    They lie together, immobile. 

    Eyes shut, alone, private
    yet holding hands.
    She and him, near-strangers,
    in this life that baffles her.
    Years since, pathways
    may have crossed. No
    second glance. Today
    eyes meet, attract,
    old campaigners with
    much to learn.
    Life has cut holes leaving
    frayed places, that need
    tender touches.
    Spun cobwebs, glint
    in sun’s rays; catch loose
    threads of hope strung
    across the gapes of
    loss. Low sun-rays shine,
    mellow the room’s hard lines,
    and the old bayberry 
    autumn-fruits sweet flesh.



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