I wonder as I wander down the Wild Atlantic Way,

how the wonders that I see along the coast

have moods that seem to vary every hour of every day,

and I can’t decide which one I love the most.

 

There’s scorching summer days although they’re few and far between,

interspersed with sudden squalls and lots of rain

that paint this wondrous island in so many shades of green

till the gales blow to reveal the sun again.

 

The ocean can’t decide if it’s a tempest or millpond,

so the rocky shores are pounded with the rage

of wild Atlantic breakers in from Rockall and beyond,

or caressed by tides when storms have disengaged.

 

Then some days when you wake up it’s as silent as the tomb,

and the mountains disappear in shrouds of mist,

but when the sun comes shining through to burn away the gloom,

then I wonder how such beauty can exist.