Mae’r caneuon y sêl ein atgofion fel cwyr ar yr is-haen o amser.
The flatwound strings thump at a leisurely but determined pace; a brisk 6/8 stroll with a skip of the heel, albeit one that is yet a step or two ahead of shoes trudging through the white drifts.
An exploded transformer, swaying cables and weeping Magnolia add to the foreboding and tension.
An eerie angelic chorus descends through the graupel as the sky turns from ash to dingy amber behind the blackened windows of the Lodge.
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