Pantglas
We silently inspect the flowers’ dewdrop tears –
silk roses –
rows of voiceless roses – which will never perish
never blush.
Satcheled shoulders quickly turned away on that day –
died October 21st 1966.
We inspect inscriptions on graves which point upwards
like thumb nails
towards this unexpected midsummer sun.
We file by
and like intruders examining other parent’s letters –
we read –
died October 21st 1966.
Our children’s’ footfalls echo in those gaps between
measured words –
the little that is said – just this and that and then …
“I collected pennies for them that November –
not for the Guy.”
Footfalls …
and “I was in Streatham Hill when I read the news …”
Footfalls …
“Did they close the Cardiff schools?”
And so to Pantglas where the sun turns inward and
we tread –
daring the ground which scarcely whispers now of
chalked blackboards,
white plimsolls,
inky fingers,
carbolic soap,
blotting paper,
echoed laughter,
life,
half terms,
exams.
Aberfan.