Letra de 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 turnFrom my window I watch far waves crashing on the bay White spray against black sea Distance compressing their dance into slow motionOn 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 horizonPantheons 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 byBelow 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 wavingThe 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 themThe storm that has howled for four days Has blown itself out Nothing disturbs the calm But the rattle of my typewriter I stopIn 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 meAs I walk through it As I breathe it As I become it