| GWREICHIONEN | SPARK |
| Grahame Davies | trans. by the poet |
|
Dyma fo, dyn y fwyell, y dyn a dorrodd edafedd gyrfaoedd degau heb bleser, ond heb boeni, yn broffesiynol, yn boléit, ond mor sicr â sgalpel. Dyma'r un a gymerodd awdl faith o staff a'i golygu fel prifardd nes ei bod yn gywydd tynn. Wrth drafod polisi corfforaethol dros y cwrw cyfrif-treuliau, sylwaf ar ei lafn o wyneb: nid oes arno filigram o bwysau gwastraff na'r un man tyner, nid yn y geg wellaif, nac yn y llygaid cyllyll. Nes imi sylwi, ar liw-haul ei groen, yn llyfn a brown fel bwrdd 'stafell gynhadledd, fflach o oleuni. Goleuni, yn wincio arnaf yn ysbeidiol, ond yn anwadadwy, o ryw lychyn bach o gliter ar ei foch. Gronyn o wallt parti merch, adawyd gan y cusan boreol. Ac wrth inni sgwrsio am gostau, ac am y brwydrau bwrdd-rheoli a fydd mor anghofiedig flwyddyn nesa' â gwleidyddiaeth Bysantiwm, mi wyliais y wreichionen anfeidrol fechan honno yn chwarae mig â'r haul. |
Here he is, the axeman, the one who cut the threads of scores of careers without pleasure, but without remorse, professional, polite, but as sure as a scalpel. This is the one who took a long epic of staff and edited it like a master down to a few tight quatrains. As we discussed corporate policy over the expense-account beer, I examined his blade of a face: not a milligramme of excess weight nor any trace of softness: not in the mouth's shears nor the eyes' knives. Until I noticed, on his tanned skin, as brown and as smooth as a conference table, a flash of light. Light, winking at me fitfully, but unmistakeably, from a tiny speck of glitter on his cheek. A trace of a daughter's party-hair left from the moming kiss. And as we discussed costs, and the boardroom battles that will be as forgotten next year as the politics of Byzantium, I watched that infinitesimal spark playing hide and seek with the sun. |
Copyright © Graham Davies; trans. Copyright © the poet - publ. Gwasg Gomer
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