Postcard from the Celtic Dreamtime

The storm that has held 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 Her rough arm waving The clammer of voices in my mind The woman who wonders about me The men who want me to deliver their dreams has faded I could 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 flavored 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 it