the first
the first snowdrop after winter’s harshness
the first sunbeam after nighttime’s darkness
the first petrichor after weeks of drought
the first child who births a newborn mother
the first sip of water after labour
the first birth after a family death
the first tart taste of summer’s raspberries
the first love-words after months of longing
the first touch of a new lover’s fingers
the first smell of dog roses in the park
the first sight of double arching rainbows
the first song of blackbirds at break of day
the first movement after constipation
the first meal after days of nausea
the first blood after days of anxiety
the first blue line after months of trying
the first dribble on a newborn’s pillow
the first smile after new glasses focus eyes
the first acceptance that all life expires
the last look that lovers will remember
Four Leafed Clover
Her foot almost
crushes a four-leafed clover,
she stops in time, pulls back, sinks down
to her knees – prays her thanks to nature
for meadows, good luck
and deep-breathing
spaces.
She always walked
paths with care.
Despite this
awareness, her foot
almost crushed a four-leafed clover.
She wonders
what else might she
have squashed
along the way.
Tired, she kneels in
this dawn-lit field
her trousers
dampened by dew.
Warm breezes brush her neck-hairs
and she is ruffled calm by unforeseen forgiveness.
A lone blackbird sings
a sweet song, this is my message for you.
Note: homage to Bob Marley, Three Little Birds
Thin Skinned
Her world, and those
of others,
leave thumbprints on her eye, her skin,
She does not hide behind conventions,
received frames of reference. She allows
herself to hear, see and feel.
Even barking brexiteers are human,
between their snarls, they want
their families to flourish, like all of us
right across the
globe.
Many men are
frightened; infant boys
who play with dangerous toys. Games
front their fears: they hit first,
before they’re pushed away.
Their ugly tactics
for getting by
don’t blind her to their loneliness
and alienation, scarred
by rank entitlement.
She balks, when
faced with righteous anger:
the liberal elite, so sure of their just cause,
their moral high-ground.
She longs to help
them see,
fire cannot be extinguished by fire,
only by cool water, steady hands and minds.
She yearns to find
words to revive
shared hope. She wants to build
swaying bridges over churning rivers,
linking opposing banks
where warring parties lie.
She dreams of
finding common ground
from which earth’s future
might be launched to survive.
Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon, [MA Creative Writing, Newcastle 2017]
Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and
poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print
anthologies. She is a Pushcart and Forward Prize nominee. Her first chapbook
'Cerddi Bach (Little Poems), was published in 2019 by Hedgehog Press. She is
developing practice as a participatory arts facilitator, mainly working with elders
and intergenerational groups. She believes everyone’s voice counts.
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