From Depression Into Light On the day, her black dog died, she emerged from limbo and finally her partner dispersed his old lies. Caught by her resurrection, the light within her knowing eyes, he came clean. Too long, he'd played redeemer according to his own needs. Humbled by her courage, he lay marrow-rich bones before her blistered feet. Thought-Spawn liquid bubble wrap too soft for popping aqueous viscous soup squishes around each nucleus to nourish fresh divers ideas inside my cranium floats homegrown brain-spawn eggs in waiting pure potential more dreams and aspirations than will ever swell to live a life destinies foreshortened and forlorn yet in the seething swirling swamp swim thoughts strong-minded fit destined to develop and survive they mature sprout heads and legs ready to fledge and spread gauche gifts zany bright through not completely wise Crepuscular Your sun sinks, shrouded beyond skyline's horizontals. Liquid iron cools hardens escaped rivulets today's furnace greys out. Tonight, dusk's knives file my brain, grim ghosts come out to play. Will they walk or race like you away? Leaving poisoned plasma deep in inflamed membranes - marked thin tissue scarred, last obsolete remains of my sunburnt mind? Beech Tree Still, silvered limbs caught open, press up, tease sky-floss clouds. Thirsty for moisture, they wait passions ringed, held buried deep beneath thick-barked skin. Coppiced trunk-legs part unashamed, reveal a perfect V - a brave inverted apex, viridian vulva, vaunted yet veiled - laced close covered in green lichen I touch dark, damp moss. Strands encircle my outstretched fingers remind me of my age and arid loss Breaking Free Ceramic up-lights, wall mounted, cup thin, lucent air in Mother's empty room. Vacant, threadbare chairs, piled high with unread books, nestle up agin long tapestry curtains. Folds backlit by swallowed sunshine. I, her hated daughter, try to push her darkness back with overwhelmed and guilty heart. French windows - bolted, brass locks cold to finger, give onto weed-thronged gardens. I snatch both handles, flout creaks to fling them open-wide. Frantic, I find mops, cloth and bucket run water from seized taps, sluice dust and slime away, clean deep through seams of tension into crisp, clear orphaned days. Wolfpack Contributor: Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon 4 Poems from Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon
Fevers of the Mind 