‘After Sinnott’ by Robert Walton | From Poetry Wales 59.1

Here is a long poem by Robert Walton, a section of which was published in Poetry Wales 59.1 which featured, among other articles and poems, a set of poems and images from the South Wales valleys. Walton’s wonderful ekphrastic poem is riffing on the famous painting by Kevin Sinnott: Running Away with the Hairdresser. 

– Zoë Brigley, Poetry Wales Editor, June 2023

Kevin Sinnott

Born in Sarn, South Wales to Irish parents, Kevin Sinnott began his career at the Cardiff College of Art and Design and the Royal College of Art in London. Sinnott runs Studio18, an art gallery in the Garw Valley, and his works often depict the people and lives of the valleys. Talking to Wales Arts Review, Sinnott explained that Running Away with the Hairdresser was “painted in lower Llangynwyd somewhere in Maesteg,” and Sinnott “had the inspiration to paint for about 24 years since I’ve been here in the [Garw] Valley and around Wales”: his art is rooted in place and “is about what’s outside these walls”.

Through Sinnott’s painting, Walton explores the potential of a dynamic moment. Who is running away with who? Which is the hairdresser? What is it they are looking for? What are they running away from or towards? In the process, Walton seems to capture the joy, drama and laughter of the valleys. 

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After Sinnott 1: Running Away with the Hairdresser

Didn’t think he was interested, to be honest. Even though I always
asked for him when I booked. Can I have Tony, please? (And I meant it in more
ways than one.) It had to be short for Antonio, didn’t it? Though his accent
was more Cardiff than Capri. A bit of a quiet one, he was. No patter. Spoke 

with his hands – when he washed my hair, lifted it to dry underneath
and touched my neck or held my curls between his fingers as he cut. 
Me, I nattered on, as per usual – clubs, rent, bands, shops closing down, 
the whole shebang. For God’s sake, Rhi, I told myself, shut it, will you? Give

the poor guy a chance to get a word in. Did I, hell? Never thought to ask 
if he was going out with anyone. But he never told me, neither. Said he 
liked reading Shakespeare of all things – I told him we did Romeo and Juliet
for our GCSEs. Watched the film. Too many fancy words. He said, Hmm.

Next time, he hardly spoke a word but as I was slipping him a tip, he held
onto my hand, stepped out the door and took me with him. Out into the glow
of a summer afternoon. We ran down the street and the world turned
gold. Every building, technicolour peach. Sky of Mediterranean blue.

Passed Maisie with her nipper in the buggy and wanted to tell her I was
running away with Leonardo DiCaprio and I was his Juliet, but I didn’t 
have the breath. Then suddenly he let go my hand and my feet left
the ground. As if they’d grown wings. Kicked my legs and rose alongside him,

a pair of doves released from a cage. Past the monument, over the trees
in the park, the terraces, allotments, horses in the fields and the woods on the hill.
We flew up the mountain, arms outstretched and fingers touching,
streaming through the air like angels, bright and laughing, heading for the sun.

2: Running Away with the Hairdryer

Tell you the truth, I couldn’t give a toss, long as he doesn’t get away with it
in court. Lucky for him your two lads was coming out the caff and nabbed him.
I was that close to grabbing his arm, God knows what I’d have done

if I’d caught him first. I’d have decked him and had him by the short’n’curlies.
But like I say, I was in the middle of doing Kylie Morgan’s bob when I saw him
loitering outside. Pretending to be looking at the photos in the window, he was.

I says to myself, he’s up to something, Edwina, but you can’t neglect your regulars
and Kylie’s a right little Mary Quant, know what I mean? Soon as I started
to trim her fringe, he struck. In and out like a bishop up your knickers. 

Took a few seconds to realise what he’d done, and I nearly stabbed poor Kylie
in the eye. Screamed the place down, she did. He’d nicked my Parlux Plus. 
The latest model. Purple Haze. Hundred quid they cost. Worth every penny. Not

that you’d need one, if you don’t mind me saying. I rushed out after the bastard, 
flattened some poor old dear against the Poundshop wall and almost went
arse over tit myself. Would’ve done an Alun Wyn Jones and ripped his head off 

if your boys hadn’t collared him first, but I knew it’d only land me in the dock
as well. Still, I called him all the names under the sun. Felt a lot better after that. 
And you know what? He couldn’t even look me in the eye. He just stared up

at the clouds on the Werfa as if he wanted to be over them hills and far away. 
I don’t blame him. If he so much as comes in spitting distance of my salon again,
he’ll never forget the day. Seen these nails? Jugular-seeking missiles, they are.

Anyone messes with me, make no mistake, they get it in the neck.
Round here, they don’t call me Edwina Scissorhands for nothing, you know.

3: Running Away with the Hell’s Angel

It was the way he said it: Kawa…saki … Seven…fifty. Lush. Felt like his tongue
was slipping between my lips, easing them open. Sent tingles down my spine.
I thought of that tatty copy of Kama Sutra Kirsty loaned me. Seven hundred
and fifty positions, but I only knew seven or eight – no, don’t go there – 
I reckon I’ve got the hang of more than fifty now. Okay. And counting.

I was staring out the window at the pigeon crapping all over Lord Whatsisname’s
statue in the Square when he roared into town. Metallic peacock blue body-panels
and the chrome flashing in the sun. Knew I was watching, didn’t he? Jacked the bike
onto its stand, took off his helmet, slid his hand through his hair. Glanced at the sky. 
Was it a pose, or was he being shy?  Kirsty’d seen him, too. Made that clucking sound

she makes when she’s got the hots. I steps outside to sweep the front and the only
thing I can think is ask about the bike. That’s when he says it. Grrr. I runs back in
the salon, tells Kirsty I’m taking early lunch, grabs my jacket and I’m gone. We went
to the park. He said he’s from Abergavenny. Or somewhere near. Welshy. He spoke 
about trees. Told me he’s an arborist … well … training … No, I didn’t have a clue …

I asked if he wanted a cuppa at mine. That’s right. Snogged as soon as we was inside. 
But he said he really fancied that tea. Two sugars, please, not too weak. So I puts on
some Keisha White, sings along to Don’t Mistake Me and dances towards him 
while the kettle boils. When I unzips his leathers, the smell of oil and sweat drives me
crazy, doesn’t it? And fuck me, is he up for the ride! Hour later, sipping our cuppa

in bed, that’s when he suggests it. When I phones in sick, I tells Kirsty it’s something
I had for lunch. She giggles, says I should watch what I eat. Three months I been here. 
Caravan on the estate. Till he gets his qualifications. Then who knows? Never going back.
Surrounded by trees. Birds twittering all day long, stream gurgling away out front. 
All sorts of creatures sniffing around at night. Gets me going. Brings out the wild.

4: Running Away with the Heirloom 

He knows it was me, soon as he sees me on the bus-stop opposite. He’s picking up
his kiddie from school. Lifts her up, hugs her to his chest, looks the other way.

Oh yeah, he knows I clocked him when he knocked me to the ground and grabbed
my Nanna’s necklace from round my throat. Treasured it, I did, that locket

and chain, the one her mam-gu give her and she give me the night before she died. 
Gold as Nanna’s big heart. Had a gorgeous photo of Gramps inside. Bless. 

Gramps would’ve beaten the shit out of him for laying a finger on me, given half
a chance – five foot five but tough as a spade, knock-out punch like Calzaghe. 

Wanker must’ve tailed us from the club after karaoke, waited till Lisa and Betsan
split, then stalked me all the way.  Would’ve heard me singing to myself,

’Only a fool… to stick by your side’ – duetting with Cerys in my dreams. Next thing,
I’m flat on my back screeching like a cat and he’s ripping it from my neck. 

Thought he couldn’t be recognised in the dark, didn’t he? Hoodie pulled up. Scarf.
But those squinty eyes and that nose like a prick and saggy pair of balls,

that’s what stuck in my mind as he done a runner down the street and left me
all scrunched up and sobbing my eyes out. Not for me. Upset for Nanna, I was.

Devastated. She brought me up like I was one of her own. Taught me always
to be honest and polite, but never let any other fucker turn you over.  

So I’ve got him in my sights and it’s my turn to do the stalking. Won’t cause 
a scene. Not with his little’un in his arms like a human shield. As he scuttles 

through the streets, like a filthy effing cockroach, he glances over his shoulder 
and I shoot a stare between his eyes. It’s all playing out in my mind. When I see

where he lives, I’ll bide my time. Wait as long as it takes. Then, soon as he steps
out the door, I stand in his way. Saliva rises in my mouth. My leg swings but it’s not

his nose my DMs are going for when I start mashing his precious crown-jewels
to pulp … Nah, not really. Couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not even for dear old Nan. 

5: Running Away with the Airedale

Wisdom’s no use to anyone afterwards, is it? One of us should’ve stayed outside
with Roxy but we didn’t think. If she’d been a Staffy or Chihuahua – I heard 
a bunch of them’s been snatched in Bridgend the last few weeks – or even
a Labrapoodle, like that gorgeous apricot beaut some bastard nicked in Maesteg
the other night – we might’ve been more cautious, might’ve thought twice, 
but we just hitched her to the bike-rack like we do. He wanted his ‘Angling Times’

and I’d volunteered to get a leaving-card for Nessa, something nice and sexy
to make her laugh her tits off, the way everyone in the salon loves her for.
Got to admit, I was sniggering away in the corner at one that took my fancy
and he had his head in some mag, probably ‘Men’s Health’ or one of those
pornos, when Ahmed shouted, ‘Hey!’ and scrambled out from behind the counter.
I thought it was a shoplifter, it never crossed my mind, till he yelled,

‘Your dog! He’s got your Roxy!’ We was out that shop like lightning and saw
some bloke was dragging her towards a Beamer, back door open, engine
revving. Me, I almost went flying in my heels and skirt, and Jason, raging like 
a navvy on acid, was bouncing off of a lamppost between him and the car
as it screeched away. We chased it down the hill, cursing to high heaven 
when it shot the lights. Just stood there silent, like, watching it racing out 

of sight. Heart-broken, helpless we was. She meant the world to us, our Rox,
and for a moment the world stopped spinning. In my mind’s eye,
her tail was an aerial telling her she was in deep trouble, so I prayed
her instincts would set her fighting spirit free.  ‘Go for it, girl!’ 
I yelled and heard my voice echo along the street. ‘You’re not a terrier 
for nothing, Roxy. Bite that fucker’s arm off. Do it, Roxy, do it!’

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Robert Walton is Cardiff born and bred and now lives in Bristol where he runs poetry events live and on-line. Twice winner of the North American Festival of Wales English poetry prize, his second collection, Sax Burglar Blues, is published by Seren. Despite years of practice, he still struggles to play the sax.

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Read the rest of 59.1 here: