HAF YR HANNER NEFTHIS SUMMER WAS NEARLY HEAVEN
Menna Elfyntrans. Elin ap Hywel
Bydd dyn â rhaca bob bore'n claddu, dros dro
feiau'r oesau a fu au rhoi oddi tano.
Benthycwyr newydd y traeth, ar grwydr.


Blith draphlith eu trugareddau
yng nghrygni'r llanw, ffiolau'n gwegian,
mor oesol âr ysfa i godi cragen,

fel y gwnâi'r pererin ers talwm;
trysor rhad, er mor wag ydyw.
Awn adre â hi fel baban newydd-anedig

yn berl a ddaeth o fynwes dywyll
ag ynddi sawr rywsut o'r gwyrthiol
y tu hwnt i'r traeth sidan, gwylaidd.


A bydd atal dweud y don
yn dal ei hanadl i'n ffenestri o rew -
cyn arllwys ei bedydd i'r elfennau.


A bydd y traeth or newydd fel cewyn glân -
i'r tylwyth sy'n dal i gropian -
au bysedd yn awchu troi'r llwch yn aur mâl.

Every morning a man with a rake
is burying yesterday's sins,
putting it all behind him
- the sands' wandering new tenants:

their things straggle everywhere
on the hoarse tide, bottles rock -
never-ending as the longing to pick up a shell

as the pilgrims did, long ago:
empty, yes, but a treasure, a gift.
We will take it home like a newly-born child,

a pearl from a dark breast:
somehow it has the lustre of miracle,
it shines from a place beyond
the silky, humble beach.

And the waves will stutter,
will catch their breath
faced with our windows of ice,
then pour their baptism to the four winds

and the beach will again be a linen cloth
for this tribe thats still learning to crawl;
their fingers itching to turn
silvery sand into powdered gold.

Copyright © Menna Elfyn 2001; Trans. Copyright © Elin ap Hywel 2001 - publ. Bloodaxe Books


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