Glyn Jones Centre

No Plaque for Glyn

No plaque on his house in the satellite rows,
No name by the brook where the body swept in,
No wink from his old school of blocked windows,
Not a mention from the history–book deacon.
Yet, by that mill, where the wheel now turning
Is on a sewing-machine, a pungent stench
Of fish invades the air,strong as burning,
Like his longing for debris of a dawn beach.
At Cyfarthfa, where his studies floated in blots
On a well of ink, a professor examines his books
For the Uncanny, as lights stutter dots
Of punctuation across our bewildered looks.
On an empty Saturday market-day,our expedition
For Glyn : finding the coffin-boards of dereliction.

Mike Jenkins