Rain sweeps across the wide open,
Clouds rolling in from the west,
Tears from the sky set in motion
Blown by a wind that won’t rest.

Ceaseless the changes chase over,
The shelterless landscape at speed.
Soft underfoot grows the clover.
Soft as a heart full of need.

It’s hard to stand tall in this weather.
it’s hard to stand still in this land.
But deep as the bonds of a brother,
Run roots from the ground where we stand.

The flesh of a bog keeps things fresher,
But we can’t sink in history’s grip
Traditions give way to new efforts,
Old lessons will easily slip.

Rain sweeps across the Atlantic,
The tide rises high on the coast
The beauty of sloped Connemara,
Slips into your sight like a ghost.

A sense of a place that seems empty,
Or savage, desolate, bleak.
Is rich to the eye that knows plenty,
We find what we set out to seek.