bees get it
our time stretches and yawns into enervated hours
chances to make our mark slide away
bees hum buzziness buried in flowers
our time stretches and yawns into enervated hours
squander vital instants and our lifespans are devoured
concentration gathers and too soon slopes astray
our time stretches and yawns into enervated hours
chances to make our mark slide away
Honeymoon
[Ardnamurchan, Scotland, September 9th 2001]
A shepherd herds his flock
up steep paths behind Brenault House,
collies bark and chap at cloven hooves.
He turns to wave, his hand dark
against autumn’s sunset.
We wave back, our grins absurd, ecstatic –
our late happiness, now secured, rooted
in this new place. Our legs ache
we’ve walked far –
through Glendrian’s dead volcano
and beyond to stony shores.
Now hunger beckons us indoors,
and thirst uncorks a Pinot Noir.
Soon, our second glasses are half full,
plates half empty. Other hungers
tug us on upstairs
a landline in the hall
jangles, demanding an answer –
my daughter’s disembodied voice explains:
tower blocks, planes, carnage,
George Bush hiding, bunkered down.
Our connection breaks.
Our appetites evaporate. We hide,
lonely, cut off, in each other’s arms.
Ashamed, still tipsy, with clammy skin,
our selfish pleasure is laid bare.
Next morning
the shepherd herds his sheep
behind Brenault House,
he half-turns, head flopped forward
face wet, eyes raw.
We nod, united.
A shepherd herds his flock
up steep paths behind Brenault House,
collies bark and chap at cloven hooves.
He turns to wave, his hand dark
against autumn’s sunset.
We wave back, our grins absurd, ecstatic –
our late happiness, now secured, rooted
in this new place. Our legs ache
we’ve walked far –
through Glendrian’s dead volcano
and beyond to stony shores.
Now hunger beckons us indoors,
and thirst uncorks a Pinot Noir.
Soon, our second glasses are half full,
plates half empty. Other hungers
tug us on upstairs
a landline in the hall
jangles, demanding an answer –
my daughter’s disembodied voice explains:
tower blocks, planes, carnage,
George Bush hiding, bunkered down.
Our connection breaks.
Our appetites evaporate. We hide,
lonely, cut off, in each other’s arms.
Ashamed, still tipsy, with clammy skin,
our selfish pleasure is laid bare.
Next morning
the shepherd herds his sheep
behind Brenault House,
he half-turns, head flopped forward
face wet, eyes raw.
We nod, united.
March storm
in lockdown’s paralysis
a spurtle of braying wind
stirs a cauldron of snowflakes
between home and our local hill
swirls curls crystals in wavelets
until suddenly all is still
and settled wrapped soft in white
clouds disperse for now
blue sky peeps through winks
through my narrowed eyes
star-blinded by brightness
as quickly
gloom mounts edges my perspective
frames my view
this storm has a way to go
Ceinwen
E Cariad Haydon (MA,
Creative Writing, Newcastle University, 2017) - Ceinwen lives near Newcastle upon Tyne, UK and writes short stories and poetry.
She is widely published in online magazines and in print anthologies. Her first
chapbook is 'Cerddi Bach' [Little Poems], Hedgehog Press, July 2019. She is
developing practice as participatory arts facilitator. She believes everyone's
voice counts.
'Sqauander vital instants and our lifespans are devoured,' love that line.
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