If you drive the broken mountain pass—
lakes like shimmering nickel—and
you inch past the random sheep and
wood lorries coming at you too fast;
you will come unexpectedly upon the
greystone castle of Kylemore,
asleep at the water’s edge,
the tiny town of Letterfrack
guarding it to the West. The inconstantly
Coloured mountains loom above. These
are the Twelve Bens, and their fishingmen
help you find your direction again
after you have been turned around good.
What you need now is a glass of stout
and a peat fire. And the drink is smooth
and both are warming. And
the wind blows you backward when you go back
outside again. Here the single
hangs on against the rain,
now forging across the bay,
and you breathe it all deeply as the sky brightens
momentarily; and you know that you could
spend an eternity in the Connemara countryside.
And perhaps you shall again.