Postcard from the Celtic Dreamtime

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 kaleidescope 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 it