The storm that has howled for four days Has blown itself out And the wheels of the world Have begun again to turn
From my window I watch far waves Crashing on the bay White spray against black sea Distance compressing their dance into slow motion On the Clare coast I see silver rounded hills With scarped terraces A martello tower, a ruined fort Four, maybe five headlands fading south While westwards the Aran Islands wait for me Dark smoke-like shadows on the horizon
Pantheons of clouds move across the Atlantic sky Like ships, white galleons Chariots or cavalcade of noble kingpins And patient, lofty queens Slow procession of old gods passing by
Below my house kaleidoscope of stone walls And huddled rooftops Small haphazard fields, wild, untended A witch-faced woman walking cows uphill Whacking their arses with a long branch Suddenly smiling when she sees me A rough arm waving
The clamour of voices in my mind The woman who wonders about me The men who want me to deliver their dreams Has faded I can almost no longer hear them
The storm that has howled for four days Has blown itself out Nothing disturbs the calm But the rattle of my typewriter
I stop
In the silence the ever-present past And the ever-passing present Blend with the landscape To make a flavoured immensity An atmosphere so strong That when I step outside I feel it beat against my skin And cluster headily round me As I walk through it As I breathe it As I become itTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
