Dynion Gogleddol (Northmen)
In Welsh:
cof am yn geltiaid farw
Yn unig ar y glan, i'n aros.
Haul darfod yn araf,
eithr i'n trigo bellach--yn ddwys.
Lleuad cynyddu yn grwn,
eithr i'n sefyll union--yn ddewr.
Tywod rhwng fy mysedd troed,
Tonnau cwmpas fy ngwddf,
Tawelwch a tristwch.
Am Yfory.
Lluoedd ar y gorwel, cychod ehedeg.
Dyfroedd troi coch dan y haul cywir,
seren chwalu.
Drychiolaethau gwen pelydru dan y lleuad holliach,
breuddwyd creulon.
Hwyliau dawnsio yn nigofaint.
Rhwyfwyr curo yn atgasrwydd.
Nhw'n dod agos.
Angau-galwad agos.
Yn unig ar y glan, i'n syrthio.
Haul crio yn isel,
eithr i'n ymgreinio bellach--yn ddwys.
Lleuad dangos yn ddaear,
eithr i'n pelydru oerllyd--yn ddewr.
Gwaed cympas fy gorff,
Ysbryd dros cyfarfod chwi,
Tawelwch a tristwch.
Nid Yfory.
In English:
memory of the dead celts
Alone on the shore, I wait.
Sun dies slow,
but I live on--grave.
Moon grows round,
but I stand straight--brave.
Sand between my toes,
Tide around my neck,
Silence and sorrow.
For Tomorrow.
Many on the sky-line, boats fly.
Water turns red under the dead sun,
crashing star.
White ghosts gleam under the whole moon,
cruelest dream.
Sails dance in wrath.
Rowers beat in rage.
Closer they come.
Closer death-call.
Alone on the shore, I lie.
Sun weeps low,
but I sprawl still--grave.
Moon shows ground,
but I gleam cold--brave.
Blood around my body.
Spirit above to meet you.
Silence and sorrow.
No Tomorrow.
Author's Note:
The Viking raids were one of the most horrific events in Celtic history.
~ Eadha Deora
For My Grannie’s Bench
It’s just a bench.
It sits in the garden,
With it’s stained wood and curled metal.
It looks a little lonely,
A little bedraggled,
With the overgrown grass underneath.
It doesn’t do anything special.
It doesn’t dance or sing.
It doesn’t foretell the future.
This bench isn’t unique.
Hundreds of others like it,
Litter the land.
And yet…..
In this bench is a history.
It has witnessed decades
Pass by as if they were seconds.
It has quietly watched,
As people come and go,
Never complaining about its place.
It has seen the sun, the moon and the stars
Shift and change everyday,
For countless hours.
Its discoloured slats contain
A wealth of information;
Stories, memories, nightmares.
If you listened hard enough,
Maybe it could speak to you,
Of everything it has known.
It’s just a bench.
Nothing special.
But it has seen so much.
~Thimble
