Kynnyaf


© Nicholas Williams

Pùb gwir gwethys / All rights reserved

Y feu an bardhonak-ma gwelys kyns oll in Poetry Cornwall 33, folen 24.

This poem first appeared in Poetry Cornwall 33, page 24.

Clyckya obma ha goslowes / Click here to listen

Text an bardhonak / Text of the poem

Egery in dyw several fenester rag gweles an text ha golowes i'n kettermyn.

Open in two separate windows to see the text and listen at the same time.


Yma trailyans orth pedn dewetha an bardhonak.

There is a translation at the end of the poem. 


Gorfen hâv yw kynnyaf, clor

wàr fâss fusyk gwlas ascor.

Bÿdh athves coll — knofen vas —

ha trèm an tir yw trevas.

Boragweyth wàr brysk an bÿs

bÿdh gwias boll gweun gwelys.

In dann howl hâv — scav hag es —

y tyber gwennal gwybes.

Pàn dheffa gwyns — creffa cris —

mis Gwynngala ’ma gyllys

gwybesen; ha’n wennal wann

boos ny gev i’n nev avàn.

Dhyworthyn dhe bow abell

neyja ’wra, dyjyn dywel.

Gwesyon scav skeul a eskyn

i’n avall-lon avallen;

coodh i’n kewel hel wàr nans

avallow — mîlyow, milgans.

Bÿdh nebes a brÿs dhe brÿs

pebys ha dainty debrys;

a voy devera y whrer

dewas dyseha cîder.

Wàr reden leder an rin

tus yonk tâlwynn a welyn,

ow whilas — whel êsy — lus

rag sùgan shùgravelys.

Tro ha tre pàn vowns trailys

’gà fâss yw du dyfâcys.

Gwedhen wer a drail hy del —

dêlyow glas yw gyllys gell.

Creffa whaffys, wherow gwyns,

noth onnen seythen Hôllsens.

Colon pùb yw codhys clâv,

crena dhe’n corf yw crevwâv.

Salow saw dha sens, a Dhuw,

mis Du ha dres Kevardhu.


Warbarth gans hedna y feu pryntys an trailyans lows-ma.

This loose translation was printed with it.

As summer ends the autumn mild

lies on face of fertile field.

Hazel’s ripe — of nuts the best —

the landscape is all harvest.

Transparent shines at early morn

the gossamer on every thorn.

Under summer’s sun with ease

the swallow catches gnats and flies.

When wind strengthens over hedges

in September, gone are midges,

and swallow weakened now but fleet

in air aloft finds little meat.

To foreign suns she turns her heart,

a darkened speck we see depart.

On orchard ladders lads attend

the loaded apple-tree to ascend.

Into brimming baskets drop

a thousand-fruited apple crop.

The choicest of the fruit is stewed

and eaten — dainty sauce with food,

while from others apple-scented

thirst-swamping cider is fermented.

See over there on side of hill

by fern the white-skinned boy and girl.

They gather blueberries all the while

for sweetest juice, an easy toil.

When to home they turn their steps

blackness smears their cheeks and lips.

Fresh foliage decays to brown;

from once-green tree leaves flutter down.

Strong the blast, the wind is keen,

the ash is bare by Hallowe’en.

All hearts have sunk and members ache,

grim winter makes the body shake.

Keep us saints in bed, at board

safe all winter through, O Lord.