Ceinwen E. Cariad Haydon

Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK. After a career as a probation officer, a mental health social worker and a practice educator she is concentrating on writing. She writes short stories and poetry. She has been published in web magazines and print anthologies. These include Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Alliterati, Stepaway, Poets Speak (whilst they still can), Three Drops from the Cauldron, Snakeskin, Obsessed with Pipework, The Linnet’s Wing, Blue Nib, Picaroon, Amaryllis, Algebra of Owls, Write to be Counted, The Lake, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Riggwelter, Poetry Shed, Southbank Poetry, Smeuse, Bandit Fiction, Atrium, Marauder, Prole, The Curlew, Mothers Always Write, Muse-Pie Press, Peeking Cat, Confluence, Porridge, Hedgehog, FlashBack Fiction and up-coming in Stonecoast Review. She was Highly Commended in the Blue Nib Chapbook Competition and won the Hedgehog Press Poetry Competition ‘Songs to Learn and Sing’ in August, 2018.  In 2017 she graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University and she is now developing practice as a creative writing facilitator with hard to reach groups. She believes everyone’s voice counts.

 

 

 

Love and Loss, Scotland, 1921

My grandmother’s hat pin,
a sharp stiletto holds
my red, cloche bonnet
sown in warm west winds.

I remember
myself, here at Loch Morar
with Jack in a lost summer. We lay
together on a blanket, ate fancies,
kissed and drank champagne.

Years on, I spy the Loch
from a bald granite peak.
Holidaymakers, sun-warmed,
scull in pleasure craft.
And I freeze.

My eyes turn inwards,
see Jack’s grey frigate:
transparent, sent from hell.

My Jack was brave,
but no swimmer or sailor.
I envision drowning men howling
in unadopted spaces behind my eyelids.

My life fevers now:
Father intones move on, my girl,
at each meal, each day.
On and on. On and on.

Last night I dreamt
Jack beckoned me
as sharks dragged him down.
Red fanned out across the roiling sea.

Woken, I heard an owl
hooting high and branches
tip-tapping my window.

A churning burn splits
my Father’s field in two.
In the dreich night
its dirge voice carried over,
spit commands at me,
Go, hinny, go.

Turned from home
I stole my mother’s brooch,
garnet-set, pinned it to my chest.
all else divested. I left,
to join my darling Jack,

wherever we may fall
to lie or rot together.

© 2019 Ceinwen E. Cariad Haydon