2. The one in which I drive through Crumlin wondering where the cigarette-razed crisp factory used to be

Despite its tileless roof and its weeds, there is an iridescence
to Crumlin’s crumbling colliery. Except, this morning as I cruise
beyond its towering chimney, I imagine its bruising

underworld – the scent of dust and sweat silenced
like this valley’s churches. I change gear as if in the presence
of ghosts. In her Grenfell bedroom, with smoke crawling,

would my Derys cwtch her teddies or her Barbies?
In my vision, I lie by her door as carbon monoxide lines
my lungs. The gas won’t be confined:

assisted by cladding, it spreads over neighbours sleeping
in front of TVs. I picture my Hayden nodding awake
like a coal mine trapper who’d sit alone for hours as methane seeped

from the coal seam. From Grenfell’s 23rd floor, a son’s Goodbye sailed
in a Snapchat. The roadside willows look weary.
Derys asks: ‘Are my sandwiches Marmite?’ ‘Sorry,’

I reply, wondering why I made her ham. Hayden yells: ‘Epic fail!’
Grenfell lacked sprinklers – cost-cutting prevailed.
In my mind, Derys runs down its storeys. Her slippers are soggy.

© Marvin Thompson, from Road Trip (Peepal Tree Press, £9.99)

We are thrilled to be able to share with you an audio recording of the poem – read by the poet himself – as well as these fantastic notes (in both English and Welsh) to help you enjoy the poem and encourage meaningful conversations on its themes.

Notes from the Poet
Nodiadau gan y Bardd

2. Yr un lle dwi’n gyrru trwy Grymlyn yn meddwl am weddillion tân-sigarét y ffatri greision.

Er gwaetha’r to heb deils a’r chwyn, mae glofa gloff, adfeiliog Crymlyn
yn pefrio, rhywsut. Ond heddiw, a minnau’n crwydro’r cyrion
tu hwnt i’w simnai dal, dwi’n dychmygu byd ei pherfedd

cleisiog – arogl llwch a chwys yn fud
fel eglwysi’r dyffryn hwn. Dwi’n newid gêr, fel pe bai ysbryd
yma’n fy ngwylio. Yn ei llofft yn Grenfell, a mwg yn cripio

ai ei thedis neu ei barbis fyddai Derys ni’n eu cwtsio?
Yn fy nychymyg, dwi’n gorwedd wrth ei drws wrth i garbon monocsid leinio
fy ysgyfaint. Nid oes dal y nwy yn ôl,

a chyda help y gaenen, mae’n lledu at gymdogion, ynghwsg
o flaen eu sgriniau. Dwi’n gweld Hayden ni yn hepian cysgu, a deffro
fel un o geidwaid drysau’r pwll, a eisteddai eu hunain am oriau wrth i fethan lithro

o’r wythïen lo. Yn Grenfell, o’r trydydd llawr ar hugain mae ffarwel mab yn hwylio
mewn dros Snapchat. Mae golwg flinderus ar helyg min y ffordd.
Fe hola Derys: ‘oes ‘na farmite yn fy mrechdan i?’, ‘Sori’

medda finna’, a damio gwneud rhai ham. Gwaedda Hayden: ‘Epic Fail!’
A doedd dim taenellwyr dŵr yn Grenfell. Mesurau torri cost. Yn fy mhen
rhed Derys hyd ei choridorau. Ei sliperi’n socan potsh.

Translator: Grug Muse | Cyfieithiad: Grug Muse
Peer reviewer: clare e. potter

Translation made possible with the support of Literature Wales | Gwireddwyd y cyfieithiad gyda chymorth gan Llenyddiaeth Cymru