Blixen remix: My song of the West

If I know a song of the West of Ireland, does the West of Ireland know a song of me?

Does the ruddy face of a lonesome farmer, rubbing his fingers as he points in the far distance to a shorter route, bear lines that trace my name?

Do the wild confettied islands of Clew Bay invite winds to whisper between their rocky shores, gently whistling a tune I once knew?

Or do the blackened pools of Blacksod reflect, in their portholes of blue skies, clouds that once resembled my form?

Will the billowing mists, making their determined way to kiss the brow of towering Croagh Patrick, also cradle some desire for me?

Or might the water lilies, lying low in placid waters beneath rolling drumlins sworn to protect their beauty, delight in knowing my face?

If I know a song of the West of Ireland, does the West of Ireland know a song of me?

(Variations on a passage from Out of Africa, by Karen Blixen)

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