Ifor ap Glyn Poems

The archaeology of eating's a strange thing;
our lunching in London
was fishfinger modern
like the plates on the placemats
...

It's a custom with my youngest
to sprinkle "sleeping dust"
over his eyes
before closing them,
...

We were reluctant pilgrims,
in our school minibus to Rhosyr;
long seconds ticked off by its wipers,
the rain had stolen the view.
...

Here in Majdanek,
in the normalised hell of Majdanek,
whose chimneys have long since cooled,
whose last gout of smoke is a distant memory,
...