Yn Nhiriogaeth y Bedw a'r Helyg

yr hendre'
tiriogaeth werdd
a nentydd bychain cùl
yn llifo dros fryniau
o bant i bridd tamp
wybren las olau
a'r haul yn gwenu mewn haf poeth
cân brogaod yn dal yn swyn imi
efo awel iach y nos

hon yw'r tir rhwng y Bedw a'r Helyg
meithrinfa felys i hogyn di-bres
coed oedd yn derynasau annwyl
lle treuliwn i oriau maith yn creu fyd ar ôl byd
anturau braf mewn hudol fan

o hyd rwyf yn cofio'r cylch a chynefin
hon oedd tir fy mreudwydion
hon oedd tir fy nhylwyth
hon oedd tir tamp a gwylltaidd

a hon yw'r tir lle mae olion fy nhad
lle 'nes i adael ei luwch yn gynnes o hyd o'r amlosga
lluwch 'naeth ddal at fy sanau fel gwagies i'r cist bach du
(Bywyd oll dyn, ei gofion, ei feddylion, ei ofnau
i gyd mewn cist bach...)
fy mrawd wrth f'ymyl
a'r tywydd yn chwilboeth
haf tebyg i'n hardal ni

a'r bedw a'r helyg wedi pydru hefyd erbyn hyn
fel 'naeth hud y tir farw fel heneiddies i
eu holion yn rŵan yn lluwch
lluwch sy'n bwydo coed newydd
pinwydd tal a gwyrdd
yn union fel mae olion tad yn eu 'neud

ond rŵan imi
yng nghyn-diriogaeth y Bedw a'r Helyg
dim ond ysbrydion sy'n crwydro'r allt
sy'n sipian o'r nentydd sisial
a chlywed cân y llyffantod

ond cofio wyf o hyd
sut le oedd hi gynt
ac er fy nghywilydd
'swn i wrth fy modd i grwydro'r hen le 'to
a phrofi unwaith eto sut lanc oeddwn i

****

the old home
a green close
drained by narrow streams
flowing along the hills
from spring valley to soggy bog
under a shock of blue sky
the sun shining in hot summers
the chirp of tree-frogs singing
in the cool breeze of the night

this is the land between the Birches and Willows
a sweet nursery to me, a penniless child
the woods were a kind sovereignty
where I would spend long hours creating world upon world
worthy journeys in a place of spirits

still I remember the trees and streams and their souls
this was the land of my dreams
this was the land of my people
this was a wildish and wet land

and this is land where my father's remains are
where I laid his ashes still warm from the crematorium
ashes that clung to my socks as I emptied the small black box
(the whole life of a man, his memories, his thoughts, his fears
all in a little box...)
my brother was at my side
the weather was hot and humid
typical for my native soil

by now though the birches and willows have rotted too
as the soul of the land withered, witness to my aging
their remains now too are nothing more than dust
still dust that nourishes new trees
pines that are tall and green
my father's ashes now do the same kind of work

but left to me now
in the former territory of the Birches and Willows
are only ghosts who wander the big hill
taking draughts from the whispering streams

though I still remember
what kind of place it was then
and despite my logic and my philosophy
I would gladly go to it again and wander the woods
and remember who I used to be