Urgent gale-hail bansheeing the house tonight gives voice to the swelling tide below at Blackrock, the waves aspume, at times astride the diving boards, sparking brightning stars, startling scudding clouds, hooping dolphins, harrowing the retreating wake, rattling the rounded speckled stones, echoing mackeral scales and herringbones, resisting the white-horse pull of the untamed atlantic soul, demanding, demanding, demanding to be heard above my submarine breathing, drowning in my own ebbing tide.
00.22am March 29 2008
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An occasional blog from the bog. My take on life in Ireland as viewed from the windy Connemara bogland at Aille, near Paddys Cross, where I live, and sometimes gaze out over Lough Inch towards Galway Bay, the Burren and the hazy hump-backs of the Aran Islands, swimming inexorably towards the setting sun and America, just beyond the Atlantic's heaving horizon.
