Postcard from the Celtic Dreamtime The Waterboys

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 Martelo 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 noblе kingpins
And patient, lofty queens
Slow procession of old gods passing by

Below my housе 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