THOUGHTS ON INIS MEAIN
Thoughts on Inis Meain…
[pronounced Inish Man]
The boat that leaves the mainland, at the mouth of Galway Bay…
There’s a wake that sprays behind, as you sway along the way…
To arrive at Inis Meain, one of the stony Aran isles…
Then when you climb that craggy ridge, you can see for many a mile…
And down there on the lowland, lines of fences made of rock…
Where the wind that sweeps the Rye grass, has surely stopped the clock…
It’s far off in the distance, across rollin’ sea caps there,
The highland of the Burren in the misty county Clare…
Cast your gaze around a bit, waves roll on a steep stoned shore,
The rain clouds ever shifting, sweep across the cliffs of Moer…
Those dry stone fences like a maze, criss cross this wind swept land,
Ten thousand million rocks they used, and each one laid by hand…
Those flowers on the windowsill, the pub that’s painted white,
As the fiddle sounds and Guinness flows, it’s a clear and starry night…
Then we three walk in the moonlight, along a winding ribbon like path,
And when were not laughin’ were talkin’, we don’t think of the aftermath…
The time has come the walrus said; the time here ticks by slow,
The ferry’s waiting at the pier, and now it’s time to go…
As we roll, over the waves, Inis Meain in the distance now,
I think of them who stacked those stones, and I’ll always wonder how…
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