Owain Glyn Poems
In 1966, in a small village in South Wales, on the 21st. of October, Pantglas Junior School was engulfed by a slide of mud and coal slag. One hundred and forty four souls lost their lives, including one hundred and sixteen children.
The sky was grey and sullen
Shrapnel rain struck window pane.
Inside sat fresh scrubbed faces
Pink with expectation.
Hair, filled with mischief
Notes passed, with intention.
Teachers with vocation
Intent on revelation.
Unearthly sounds reverberated
Silent breaths were held.
Death's hounds were near, and ...
Every year it comes around, this season of goodwill,
When visitors we truly loathe, come round and drink their fill.
Relatives we haven't seen, since nineteen fifty four,
Discover where we're living, and come knocking at the door.
We end up going shopping, spending cash we haven't got,
Filling up the Credit Cards, as if we've lost the plot.
We buy for all and sundry, and then we buy some more,
As if we've quite forgotten, that it all needs paying for.