On the Margins by Ceinwen Haydon

Rabble rousers and racists,

ugly in their utterances,

superior in their suppositions,

they are everywhere. Some

wear uniforms, some kitten heels; many

are in disguise and pass. Others

are flagrant and defy decency,

revelling in the shockwaves

that ripple as they storm through

crowds of Saturday shoppers.


Who are they, the puppeteers?

Murdoch, global corporations,

bankers and our ruling class – Teflon

Tories or something even worse?

They fuel have-not hatred,

I blame you’,

turn despair to demonic diatribes,

detestation of difference. Divide

and rule, the ancient way.


These trenchant desperados

on our streets, they’d do well to learn,

they’ll fall with the same frayed frailty

as the rest of us, expended and cast out at will

by the Teflon Tories, when it suits the suits.


The Teflon Tories, toss off those tricky

rich and powerful monstrosities with

marble-soled boots that crush

and crack plebeian bones to smithereens

beneath their superior stations, elevated

and enshrined in statuary – erected

in populous, infernal error –


until the day the People stir as one.

It was the darkest night by Ceinwen Haydon

It was the darkest night,

in the heart of the winter;

I looked up and saw a voided sky. No moon,

no star,

not even clouds to weep

on the crusted ice that froze the land,

the river, formed floes on the ocean’s waves.



Looking up, I had not seen –

the others


A hand grasped my left,

another my right – palms pressed together:

The chain crossed cracks, ditches, sink holes,

lanes, villages,

highways, cities, counties,




A slow sound silvered, a hum, a murmur,

a buzz, a song, an aria.

We will hold hands in the dead of


Winter will have its time, but

we will have an early spring –

in spite of it all.