On the road just passed Ballinasloe,
with tyres hugging tight
to tarmac's staccato white stripes,
the stone walls of Aran seem so long ago.
Bu that is only the distance,
And she is more than the proof.
The island's sun has tinted her face,
Its sand has clung tight to salted skin,
The cliffs have sped the pace of her chest,
And now it's the Atlantic that floats within.
