GWREICHIONENSPARK
Grahame Daviestrans. 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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