ADRODDIADOWL REPORT*
Elin ap Hyweltrans. the poet
Erbyn hyn, mae'n falch gen i ddeud,
mae'r cyfan yn dechrau dod i drefn;
rwy'n dechrau ymgynefino
ag adareiddrwydd.
(Rwy'n teimlo'n awr, ers rhyw ganrif neu ddwy,
fod hedfan yn dod yn haws. Mae'r cydbwysedd
rhwng yr adain dde a'r chwith wedi gwella
a'r broses o lanio'n esmwythach o lawer.
Erodynamig. Dyna'r gair.)

Mae'n gam mawr, edrych yn ôl.
Weithiau, bydd y gorffennol
yn gwasgu yn gas ar fy nghylla,
yn fwled drom sy'n llawn esgyrn a blew,

yn enwedig ar nosweithiau o haf -
ar yr eiliad honno, rhwng cyfnos a gwyll
pan fo'r byd yn rhuthr o rwysg adenydd
a bywyd mor fyr â'r cof am lygoden,
yn wich fechan rhwng dau dywyllwch.

Ond bryd hynny mi fydda' i'n cofio:
doeddwn i ddim yn leicio'r ffordd
y byddai'r gynau sidan pob-lliw
yn glynu wrth fy ystlys yn y gwres
ar y prynhawniau tragwyddol hynny
pan ddodai Llew ei law ar fy nglin.

Ydyn, mae plu yn well o lawer,
yn sych ac ysgafn, fel dail neu flodau.
Dydyn nhw ddim yn dangos y gwaed.
Maen nhw'n haws o lawer i'w cadw'n lân.
I'm glad to report that by now
things are starting to make some sense;
I'm beginning to get used to
birdishness.
(I've been feeling now, for a century or two,
that flying is getting easier. Co-ordination
between the right wing and the left has improved
and landing has become much, much smoother.
Aerodynamic. Yes, that's the word.)

It's a big step, looking back.
Sometimes the past gets me by the gullet,
weighing down heavy,
a hard pellet, full of hair and bones,

especially on summer nights -
at that second, somewhere between twilight and dusk
when the world is a rush of wings in glory
and life as short as a mouse's memory,
a squeak between one darkness and the next.

It's at times like these I remember:
I never did like the way
the multi-coloured silk gowns
stuck to my sides in the heat
on those endless aftemoons
when Llew used to put his hand on my knee.

Feathers are really much better for you.
They're dry and light, like leaves or flowers:
they don't show the blood as much.
It's much, much easier to keep them clean.

*In the Fourth Branch of the Mabinogion Blodeuwedd, the woman made of flowers,
is turned into an owl as a punishment for her adultery.

Copyright © Elyn ap Hywel; trans. Copyright © the poet - publ. Gwasg Gower


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