GYRRU I BENDRIVER
Menna Elfyntr. Tony Conran
'... 'rown i'n 54-blwydd oed ddoe. Mae pob dim a wnaf
yn awr yn ras yn erbyn yr ymgymerwr. Alla i ddim
gwastraffu rhagor o amser.í GWYN A. WILLIAMS


Annwyl lywiedydd, troist bob siwrne'n ffawd yrru
rhwng dyfnant a dwnshwn. Pob mater yn her
a'r metel o'th amgylch yn dychlamu,

ymosod ar sbardun, cweryla â brêc, ffrithiant -
rhwng y lôn a'r llwyni. Pob creadur ar ffo
wrth dy glywed yn bracso gêrs at eu henaint,

ciliai'r lleuad i'w chwfaint wrth baderu galar,
oblegid dy herwa ar bob erw o'r ffordd
tarw dur oeddit, ar darmac ymhongar.

crynai'r sgrÓn wynt wrth amrantu'r wipar
tramwyo'n ufudd ei dynged ddi-dâl,
amlach na pheidio, troi'r gwrych yn gymar:

closiaist ato, clawdd terfyn mor ddi-draha;
osgoi clec a chlatsh rhyw gerbydau syn
a ddoi'n anfoddog amdanat. Un ddrysfa

rhwng blewyn gwrthdaro a gweryd. Dargyfeirio
pob llyw arall; troi'n alltud olwynion ar chwâl,
wrth sglefrio ar iâ du dy ddrycin. Dy oleuadau'n fflachio

goleuadau coch parhaus cyn sgrialdod - troëlli -
pob noson yn gyrffiw tân gwyllt i greaduria0id;
dy gerbyd yn rhan o rali fynyddig, danlli,

ond heno, sgrÓn arall a dynnwyd, i'w galed-fyd;
yn dolciog orweddog, erys heb wefrau;
collodd Cymru un gyrrwr orlog o'i gynfyd.
'I was 54 yesterday. Everything I now do is a race against the undertaker. I canít waste any more time.í
GWYN A. WILLIAMS


Dear driver, you made every journey a joy ride
between deep stream and canyon. Everything a challenge
and the metal jumping round you...

assault on accelerator, squabble with brakes, friction
between lane and bushes. Every creature in flight
hearing you paddle gears to old age.

Moon retired to her convent, to her rosaries of grief
because you were highwayman every acre of the way,
a steel bull on the dogmas of tarmac.

Windscreen quaked, wiper blinked like an eyelid
to and fro, obedient to its thankless destiny -
more often than not, you made the hedge partner

closed with it - how humble the boundary dyke -
to avoid clash and crack of the stunned cars
that were, unwillingly, coming round you. A hair's breadth,

a labyrinth, between collision and earth. You diverted
every other helm; wheels scattered to exile,
slid on the black ice of your storm. Your lights flashed -

red ones always - delinquent, skidding, spinning -
your car, like a curfew of fireworks for creatures,
every night took part in a mountain rally.

But there's another screen shut fast tonight;
prostrate and battered, nothing thrills through him;
Wales has one less rash driver through the ages.

Copyright © Menna Elfyn; trans. Copyright © Tony Conran - publ. Bloodaxe Books


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