Changed Climate, England, Summer 2019 by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

Dust settles on summer windowsills,
on sideboards TVs shimmer Churchill’s ghost
onto modern screens   conjured plasma
realised through BJ’s studied bull-dog slump.

Right-wing masterminds, harness nostalgia,
declare war on liberty, compassion, freedom
with crazy, clownish grins and promised tax cuts.

In extreme heat, blood runs cold. Benighted
whispers escape Mogg’s elocution: the old/young/
frail/different/un-monied/finally everyone
beyond white rank and privilege will fail.
Terror unopposed, trashes lives beyond redemption –

yet in suffocated daylight, foul with fumes,
angry men mop their bows and mutter,
Give the BJ man a chance. Who knows?
Cometh the hour, cometh the man?
Beguiled by his brass-faced badness,
shameless mis-speech, they cling to bleached
colonial dreams, forget collateral nightmares.
Historians are hated, placed under house-arrest
banned from shedding quenching beams of light
into hell, onto our underworld’s smoking coals.

Young people with fresh eyes, call out BJ
and his crew, their coruscated sunshone lies.
Older adults, stupefied, relinquish resistance
to wilful ignorance and time’s scalding, stinking dustbin.

projections in the night, by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

1.

we met in the shade of that bright summer
innocent of the strength of hate
our country faced

you saw first
you touched my wrist

as knowledge dawned
I left my life
to join you in the struggle
you thought we all could win

even then   none could anticipate
what horror
the rolled-out months would bring
poisonous lies   death hidden in mad clowns’ mouths
buried under blond coifs

too late   our people witnessed
tsunamis of destruction   hate crime    broken Britain
cowered   trampled under fascist privilege

2.

we parted in shadows of dark winter months
near-defeated by all that came to pass
you touched my wrist
said goodbye and left to give your life
for our last-ditch struggle to survive

you and your kin redeemed lost hope
defeated damned despair

your sacrifice stirred apathy to action
late in the day   truth dawned
we are many they are few

our victory is fragile   our vision new
and deep in my night-time dreams
you touch my wrist

my mind   my heart
my life