West Wind Blows 5jan2025

This program is sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling, offering an affordable and sustainable way to get rid of old furniture and matches. The West Wind Blows is a weekly program of poetry, song, and story. It begins with a poem by WB Yeats called The Fiddler of Doonay. Then, Michael Cody's poem The Jupiter Epiphany is read, followed by Linda Welby's performance of The Galway Fiddler. Finally, Mary Faherty reads The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry. This program is kindly sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. Say goodbye to your old furniture and matches in an affordable, convenient and sustainable way. Call 091-760-877. Hello again and welcome to the West Wind Blows, a weekly program of poetry, song and story. My name is Kathleen Faherty and Bridie Cashin is producer and technician for the program. We'll begin the program with a poem by WB Yeats called The Fiddler of Doonay. The poem is read by Nicholas Bolton and it's from the CD The Life and Works of WB Yeats. The Fiddler of Doonay. When I play on my fiddle in Doonay, folk dance like a wave of the sea. My cousin is priest in Kildarnet, my brother in Moccarabooey. I pass my brother and cousin, they read in their books of prayer, I read in my book of songs I bought at the Sligo Fair. When we come at the end of time to Peter sitting in state, he will smile on the three old spirits but call me first through the gate. For the good are always the merry, saved by an evil chance, and the merry love the fiddle and the merry love to dance. And when the folk there spy me, they will all come up to me, with here is the Fiddler of Doonay, and dance like a wave of the sea. And when the folk there spy me, they will all come up to me, with here is the Fiddler of Doonay, and dance like a wave of the sea. I rambled in through Galway city, in a world of my own, sat by the quay, I came across a strange old man, playing his fiddle, I became his fan. He played that fiddle as an old man could, he bore that tune and was covered in mud. I wondered why he was standing there, begging for money that didn't look fair. I approached this man with such great care, he wished to know my age, I thought, yeah. He smiled towards me as I looked at him, and I knew in my heart he was like fourteen. I asked him why did you bring it to the session, it's here on the street, with all of them in. He replied so kindly, I'm here for the poor, for eleven times, enjoy elsewhere and more. I wondered where he had learned to play, with such compassion, I do have to say. I came to find Fiddler, but never before had I heard fine music right from the poor. He said he had learned from the birds in the sky, the songs each morning he played really fast. He said to me listen, there's a breeze through the heddle, I'll play you to a tune, you must have the rhythm. In the snow he played, the birds would treat, crowds of people gathered in the street, to hear him play. With all time released, his love for music has been revealed. As I left that old man, I thanked him so much, from deep inside my heart he took a man with all his heart. He said he had learned from the birds in the sky, the songs each morning he played really fast. He said to me listen, there's a breeze through the heddle, I'll play you to a tune, you must have the rhythm. He said to me listen, there's a breeze through the heddle, I'll play you to a tune, you must And that was Linda Welby with The Galway Fiddler. Michael Cody, poet and short story writer, was born in 1939 in Carrick-on-Shore, County Tipperary, where he continues to live. This Michael Cody poem is called The Jupiter Epiphany. It's based on the poet's own personal experience. The setting is in a church where the poet is attending a removal ceremony on the evening of the 6th of January, the Feast of the Epiphany, the revelation of Christ to the public world, and a way up in space above the belfry of the church can be seen the planet Jupiter. I suppose in a way Jupiter is being revealed also to the gazer. So you have the Jupiter Epiphany and the Feast of the Epiphany. The poem begins, removal time for Flory, piano woman, songster, this calm nightfall which stayed up of stars, feast of Gaspar, Balthasar and Melchior. Removal time is kind of resonant of moving house, and of course she is moving to another existence. And Flory was a pianist who entertained the people in pubs and music halls. She is lifted on men's shoulders at the doorway of the church. You hear the phrase being carried shoulder high. It's a time of celebration, she has completed life's journey, a life where she radiated songs, music, dance and entertainment. Then there calls for the priest to bless the coffin with holy water. And that holy water, like the water of baptism, brings together her beginning in baptism and her end in death, the Alpha and the Omega. He puts it the other way around of course, it's brilliant how he puts it, signifying confluence of Omega and Alpha, the meeting of end and beginning, telling us that it's not over at all, because she is going to a new life. While all this is happening, the poet is remembering the days of her life, the cadence of town hall piano, the temperamental mic, the faulty crackling mic, the songs, the nicotine, and the branded timbre of the voice across the years. Tonight she's all sung out, all her earthly songs are over. It's all down to basic words and water, and the poet is telling you and me, as if we were outside the church on that evening, the 6th of January, the feast of the Epiphany, to look up and see the planet Jupiter arranged above the belfry of the church, and he's calling on us to imagine the Sarabande of its golden moons, the four great moons of Jupiter, Europa, Ganymede, Io and Callisto. They're carrying out a Sarabande, a dance in astro-time, that's in space-time, and they're looking down at a woman earthling being lifted on men's shoulders. For company tonight she has silence and the dark. How different from the bright lights and the music that was her life, Fleury will spend tonight before the altar, font and crib, in the company of the Holy Family, shepherds, animals and kings. Remembered music is the gift she brings. The wise men brought gold, frankincense and myrrh, but she brings the memories of her music that set men and women dancing through their given nights, their orbits of the sun. Remembered music is the gift she brings, those nights the slicked and scented took the floor, for her don't get around much any more. Now Mary Ruddy will read The Jupiter Epiphany by Michael Cody. The Jupiter Epiphany by Michael Cody. Full-time for Fleury, piano-woman, songster, this calm night-fall would fade up of stars, feast of Gaspar, Balthasar and Melchior. She's lifted on men's shoulders at the doorway of the chapel, with a pause for priest to greet and bless with holy water, as in baptism, signifying confluence of Omega and Alpha. All the cadence of the town-hall piano, the temperamental mic, the songs, the nicotine and brandy-tomber of the voice across the years. Tonight she's all sung out, but in best blouse, with rouge and lipstick and mascara, with jeweled fingers that set men and women dancing through their given nights, their orbits of the sun. Both come down to elemental words and water under great Jupiter, remote yet clear. See the planetary gleam aligned above the belfry, and envision Sarabande of its Galilean moons, Europa, Ganymede, Io, Callisto, in astral time above a river-town, an open door of light, a woman earthling borne upon men's shoulders. Glory is laid before altar, font and crib, until tomorrow's rituals of other world and earth. For company tonight she has silence on the dark, holy family, shepherds, animals and kings. Remembered music is the gift she brings. Those nights, the flicked and scented, tuck the floor, for her don't get around much anymore. It's nine o'clock on a Saturday, regular crowd shuffling in, there's an old man sitting next to me, making love to his tonic and gin. He says, son, can you play me a memory? I'm not really sure how it goes, but it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete. When I wore a young man's clothes, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la Feeling all right Now John at the bar is a friend of mine He gets me my drinks for free And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke But there's some place that he'd rather be And the waitress is practicing politics Passionate as men grow to get stoned Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness But it's better than drinking alone Yeah Sing us a song, you're the piano man Sing us a song tonight Well, we're all in the mood for a melody And you've got us feeling all right Yeah It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday And the manager gives me a smile Cause he knows that it's me they've been coming to see To forget about life for a while And the piano sounds like a carnival And the microphone smells like a beer And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar And say, man, what are you doing here? Oh, la, la, la, di, di, da La, la, di, di, da, da, da Sing us a song, you're the piano man Sing us a song tonight Well, we're all in the mood for a melody And you've got us feeling all right Yeah And that was The Piano Man from The Very Best of Billy Joel The American short story writer O. Henry was born in North Carolina in 1862 His real name was William Sidney Porter and O. Henry was the name he used as a writer This O. Henry story is called The Gift of the Magi It's a very beautiful story and it's a love story It's about a young married couple and how they deal with the challenge of buying secret gifts for each other with very little money The title of the story is very appropriate at this time when the Catholic Church celebrates the arrival of the Magi the three wise men who brought gifts to the baby Jesus in Bethlehem Now Mary Faherty will read The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry The Gift of the Magi One dollar and eighty-seven cents That was all and sixty cents of it was in pennies Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burnt with the silent imputation of persimmony that such close dealing implied Three times they'll account to it One dollar and eighty-seven cents and the next day would be Christmas There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl So Adela did which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles and smiles with sniffles predominating While the mistress of the home was gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second take a look at the home a furnished flat at eight dollars per week It did not exactly beg a description but certainly had that word on the lookout for the Medicency Squad In the vestibule below was a letterbox into which no letter would go an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name Mr. James Dillingham Young The Dillingham had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid thirty dollars per week Now, when the income had shrunk to twenty dollars the letters of Dillingham looked blurred as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming d But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called Jim and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young already introduced to you as Dela which is all very good Dela finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard Tomorrow would be Christmas Day and she had only one dollar and eighty-seven cents with which to buy Jim a present She had been saving every penny she could for months with this result Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far Expenses had been graded and she had calculated They always are Only one dollar and eighty-seven cents to buy a present for Jim Her Jim Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him something fine and rare and sterling something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honour of being owned by Jim There was a pier glass between the windows of the room Perhaps you have seen a pier glass in an eight dollar flat A very thin and very agile person may by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks Dela, being slender, had mastered the art Suddenly she twirled from the window and stood before the glass Her eyes were shining brilliantly but her face had lost its colour within twenty seconds Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length Now there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's The other was Dela's hair Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the air shaft Dela would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts Had King Solomon been the janitor with all his treasures piled up in the basement Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed just to see him pluck at his beard from envy So now Dela's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her And then she did it up again nervously and quickly Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed onto the worn red carpet On winter-old brown jacket on winter-old brown hat with a whirl of skirts and with a brilliant sparkle still in her eyes she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street Where she stopped the sign read Madame Sophrony Hair goods of all kinds Once light up Dela ran and collected herself panting Madame, large, too white, chilly hardly looked the Sophrony Will you buy my hair? asked Dela I buy hair, said Madame Take your hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it Down rippled the brown cascade Twenty dollars, said Madame lifting the mat with a practiced hand Give it to me quick, said Dela Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings Forget the hashed metaphor She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present She found it at last It surely had been made for Jim and no one else There was no other like it in any of the stores and she had turned all of them inside out It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation as all good things should be It was even worthy of the watch As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's It was like him Quietness and value, the description applied to both Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company Grand as the watch was he sometimes looked at it on the fly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain When Dela reached home her intoxication gave way to a little prudence and reason She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love which is always a tremendous task, dear friends a mammoth task Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-line curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully and critically If Jim doesn't kill me, she said to herself before he takes a second look at me he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl But what could I do? Oh, what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents? At seven o'clock the coffee was made and the fine pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops Jim was never late Dela doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered Then she heard his step on the stair a way down on the first flight and she turned white for just a moment She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things and now she whispered Please God make him think I'm still pretty The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it He looked thin and very serious Poor fellow He was only twenty-two and to be burdened with a family He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves Jim stopped inside the door as immovable as a setter at the centre of a quail His eyes were fixed upon Dela and there was an expression in them that she could not read and it terrified her It was not anger nor surprise nor disapproval nor horror nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face Dela wriggled off the table and went for him Jim, darling, she cried Don't look at me that way I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present It'll grow out again You won't mind, will you? I just had to do it My hair grows awfully fast Say Merry Christmas, Jim, and let's be happy You don't know what a nice what a beautiful nice gift I've got for you You've cut off your hair? asked Jim laboriously as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labour Cut it off and sold it said Dela Don't you like me just as well anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I? Jim looked around the room curiously You say your hair is gone? he said with an air almost of idiocy You needn't look for it, said Dela It's sold I tell you, sold and gone too It's Christmas Eve, boy Be good to me for it went to for you Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered she went on with a sudden serious sweetness but nobody ever could count my love for you Shall I put the chops on, Jim? Out of his trance, Jim seemed quickly to wake He enfolded his Dela For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction Eight dollars a week or a million a year what's the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer The Magi brought valuable gifts but that was not among them This dark assertion would be illuminated later on Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table Don't make any mistake, Del he said, about me I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper And then an ecstatic scream of joy and then, alas, a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the Lord of the Flat For there lay the combs the set of combs, side and back that Dela had worshipped for long in a Broadway window Beautiful combs, pure tortoiseshell with jewelled rims Just the shade to wear the beautiful vanished hair They were expensive combs, she knew and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession And now they were hers but the tresses that should have adored the coveted adornments were gone But she hugged them to her bosom and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say My hair grows so fast, Jim And then Dela leapt up like a little finch cat and cried, oh, oh Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present She held it out to him eagerly with her open palm The dull, precious metal seemed to flash with the reflection of her bright and ardent spirit Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now Give me your watch I want to see how it looks on it Instead of obeying Jim tumbled down onto the couch and put his hand under the back of his head and smiled Del, said he Let's put our Christmas presents away and keep them a while They're too nice to use just as presents I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs And now, suppose you put the chops on The Magi, as you know, were wise men wonderfully wise men who brought gifts to the babe in the manger They invented the art of giving Christmas presents Being wise their gifts were no doubt wise ones possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest Of all who give and receive gifts such as they are wisest Everywhere they are wisest They are the Magi I'm in love with a girl with a golden kiss and without the girl with a golden brain I saw a gal of golden hair dancing as I played Never saw a gal so fair as a girl with a golden brain I was traveling with a band came to town and stayed Knew I'd have to seek the hand of the girl with a golden brain Dance girl, dance and play Dance and steal my heart away So many hearts stand in line but I knew you'd be mine Yes, you'd be mine Knew I'd have to take a chance so I made a trade Gave my fiddle for a dance with a girl with a golden brain Now and through forevermore a Roman never paid Found a life that I adore with a girl with a golden brain Dance girl, dance and play Dance and steal my heart away So many hearts stand in line but I knew you'd be mine Oh, you'd be mine Dance girl, dance and play Dance and steal my heart away So many hearts stand in line but I knew you'd be mine You'd be mine Now the boys are talking of my last serenade Lucky me, I'm so in love with a girl with a golden brain Ever since that night in June life's a rose in shade Dancing on my honeymoon Dancing on my honeymoon with a girl with a golden brain Dance girl, dance and play Dance and steal my heart away So many hearts stand in line but I knew you'd be mine Dance girl, dance and play Dance and steal my heart away So many hearts stand in line but I knew you'd be mine Yes, I knew you'd be mine And that was Perry Como with The Girl with the Golden Brains And now Cathy Sweeney will read a poem by Brendan Kennelly Brendan Kennelly is a poet born in Kerry but living for many years in Dublin And this poem, We Are Living is a very simple and I think but very affecting poem about the impress that people leave behind them We are living What is this room but the moments we have lived in it When all due has been paid to gods of wood and stone and recognition has been made of those who breathe here when we are gone Does it not take its worth from us who made it because we were here Your words are the only furniture I can remember Your body the book that told me most If this room has a ghost it will be your laughter in the frank dark revealing the world as a room loved only for those moments when we touched the purely human I could give water now to thirsty plants dig up the floorboards the foundation study the worm's confidence challenge his omnipotence because my blind eyes are two walls that make safe prisons of the days We are living in ceiling floor and windows We are given to where we have been This white door will always open on what our hands have touched our eyes have seen If those lips could only speak If those eyes could only see If those beautiful golden shreds Were here in reality Could I only tell you That I love you That I love you That I love you That I love you That I love you That I love you That I love you That I love you That I love you Could I only take your hand As I did when you spoke my name But it's only a beautiful picture In a beautiful golden frame Deep stood in a beautiful mansion Surrounded by riches untold And he gazed at a beautiful picture That hung in a frame of gold Was a picture of a lady A beautiful young unfair To this beautiful life like vision He murmured in past despair If those lips could only speak If those eyes could only see If those beautiful golden shreds Were here in reality Could I only take your hand As I did when you spoke my name But it's only a beautiful picture In a beautiful golden frame He stood there and gazed on that picture Then slumbering forgetting all the pain Were there in that mansion in fantasy She stood by his side again His lips they softly murmured The name of his one sweet bride With his eyes fixed on that picture He awoke from his dream and sighed If those lips could only speak If those eyes could only see If those beautiful golden shreds Were here in reality Could I only take your hand As I did when you spoke my name But it's only a beautiful picture In a beautiful golden frame In a beautiful golden frame If those lips could only speak If those eyes could only see If those beautiful golden shreds Were here in reality Could I only take your hand As I did We have a short story by Hugo Kelly and now Mary Ruddy will read The Insomniac by Hugo Kelly The Insomniac Hilary, my wife, sleeps from medicated sleep, a sudden state that can't be broken by our loud explosions or the occasional chemical nightmare that causes her to cry out like a young girl. It is in these moments that I think that I still love her. I slip out of the marital bed, leave its fleshy warmth and cautiously tread down our wooden stairs, one creaking step at a time. Downstairs, the hallway is lined by shadows and the pale ghostly tiles are cold beneath my feet. I walk through the kitchen, our industrial fridge humming like a giant battery. As I approach the next door to the kitchen, I leave the light off, preferring the darkness. Picking up the phone, I press the first few digits of the number, counting each one with deliberation as if I am entering a secret code. But then, inexplicably, the nerves begin to flutter in my stomach. I hesitate and replace the receiver. I am not yet ready. No, not yet. Back in the kitchen, I survey the neat worktop and shining silver of our appliances. My head throbs with the gritty presence of insomnia and my mouth is dry. The light pours into the kitchen from our neighbour's censer lamps that turn the four-bedroomed detached house into a labour camp, circa 1950s Siberia. I stare out into the ferocious brightness and see that the back window of the house is also lit and that there is a woman standing within its frame looking out. She is middle-aged with tight dark hair, dressed in a white dressing gown. Judging by the sudden slant of her head, I guess that she has seen me as well and so we both stare at each other, locked in a moment of odd intimacy. I raise a hand and wave to her. Comically, she lifts a stiff arm and waves to me in return. Then, after a few tormented seconds, she pulls the curtains closed. The glow of light from the room is neutered to a red tinge. Soon, the censer lights go out and a suburban darkness falls again like a soft blanket. I turn on the tap and pour myself a glass of water and drink it back. And so, now composed, I walk briskly back into the study. My hand hovers above the phone but this time I grip it firmly and dial the number. I can imagine its noise breaking the silence of night in our house and of her being roused from sleep. I think about the doubt and fear that such intrusions cause. The burr of the phone rings in my ear. I know she waits beside the phone but does not pick up. The phone rings out. Immediately, I dial the number again. It rings and rings and then there is a click, followed by the monotonous, engaged tone that sounds like a tired alarm. The phone has been taken off the hook and I feel strangely gratified at this. I force myself to relax, savouring this frail sense of contact. I met her in our municipal gallery on a quiet afternoon. Immediately, I liked her deep brown eyes and her intelligent face and the sense of mischievousness that it contained, taking each moment on its own terms. Why not? The dark eyes burned with amusement at my awkwardness. What followed was a month of furtive meetings in out-of-the-way hotels. There was drama and passion, perhaps tenderness, maybe even hints of love. Then, one day, she put on her jacket, smoothed down her narrow skirt. She brushed back her long hair in that intimate feminine way and in the dim lamplight she looked utterly beautiful to me. She spoke deliberately and there was sudden distance in her manner and I felt afraid. This is over now, she said. I don't regret it, but I'm not going to see you again. It's for the best. I think you understand. At the time, I said nothing, but I knew I could not accept this. It's just the way I am. From above me there is the gurgling of pipes, the ceiling creaks as if a wooden beam has been plucked. Wondering as ever, does my wife have any suspicions? I don't believe she does. She no longer observes me closely. I am that picture on the wall you see every day that you cannot describe. I think about returning to bed again, but that is a depressing thought. Sleep will not arrive and if it does, it will be empty and I will awake flat, sapped by the experience. I walk back through the kitchen and return to my study. The darkness soothes me as I lift the phone and out of hope I dial her number again. There is a hesitation as the circuits and relays click and connect. To my surprise, there is the drone of ringing. The phone has been replaced. An unbearable tension settles. Each ring is like a bell tolling. Silently I urge her to answer. There is a faint click and then I can hear the glow of breath on the line. I listen to its intimate signature and wonder is she listening to mine. Leave me alone, she says. I need to talk to you, I bluster. Leave me alone. I need to hear your voice. Is that such a sin? There is a pause. Yes it is, she says. Yes it truly is. So it is a sin to love you. I can hear the shiver of tears, perhaps frustration in her voice. She sucks in a deep breath. No, she says. You don't love me. You just enjoy thinking you do. You're just not a good person. Otherwise you wouldn't do this to me. Love makes people do unusual things, I whisper. I'm not proud, but I can't stop myself. The phone issues a dull thump as she hangs up. After fifteen agonising seconds I dial, but the phone is again off the hook. Slowly I dial and dial, thinking that perhaps she will answer. In frustration I hammer the phone down. The noise resonates like a blow, a slice of violence that surprises me. I stand there shaking, and just in that instant the censor lights come on again from our neighbour's house, bleaching the dark walls. I walk back into the kitchen and look for the woman in the window again, relishing some human contact, but the window frames are dark, blocked by curtains. In the distance there is a throaty roll of cars on the motorway. Above me the night sky is swept with fragmentary clouds, and the ten distant lights of the stars blink as if they are about to go out. The rich roofs of the semi-detached houses pan out neatly in rows like the letters on a keyboard. The censor lights go out, and in a stray apparition I see my sunken-eyed reflection against the window glass. I look old and grey and tired. I place my fingertips on the cool surface of the window and press until the skin feels numb. Back in the marital bedroom I stand at the bedside. Hilary lies lost in her dreams, and for a moment I wonder what they are. Our dreams would have been similar once, dare I say, shared, but at some point they separated, inch by inexorable inch, like continents drifting apart. Lying there, her presence is soft and yet so accusatory. Our trust is the worst thing to abuse, and yet it is so easily done. For a moment I am filled with a major desire to confess everything to her. I have a blinding glimpse of a different freedom where I can unmake this life and the choices I have made. I find that my mouth is dry and my brow is prickling with perspiration. Blinking lights freckle the darkness from the corner of my eyes. The adrenaline has frozen in my veins, clogging my heart. If I walk away from this moment, I fear that I can never return to it. But still I do nothing, standing until the cold finally begins to bite and I shiver involuntarily. At last I move robotically and settle once again in the bed's warmth that now makes me feel unwelcome. I lie restless and yet exhausted, unable to untangle the knot of my thoughts and fears and desires. I stare into the great darkness, praying that sleep will come and release me. But I know that it will not come, and only dawn will bring an alternative relief. The minutes pass. Outside the sensor lights come on and turn off in slow intervals. My wife lies beside me, unmoving. I know that tomorrow night I will ring again. It's just something that I have to do. I told Mary about her. I told her about her great sin. Mary cried and forgave me. And Mary took me back again. She said if I wanted my freedom I could be free evermore. But I don't want to be and I don't want to see Mary crying anymore. Oh, devil woman, devil woman, let go of me. Devil woman, let me be and leave me alone. I want to go home. Mary is waiting and weeping down in our shack by the sea. Even after I've hurt her, Mary's still in love with me. Devil woman, it's over. Trapped no more by your charm. Cause I don't want to stay. I want to get away. Woman, let go of my arm. Oh, devil woman, devil woman, let go of me. Devil woman, let me be and leave me alone. I want to go home. Devil woman, you're evil like the dark coral reef. Like the winds that bring high tide, you bring sorrow and grief. It made me ashamed to face Mary. Barely had a thing to tell. Skies are not so black, Mary. Doesn't mean that Mary has broken your spell. Oh, devil woman, devil woman, let go of me. Devil woman, let me be and leave me alone. I want to go home. Running along by the sea shore, running as fast as I can. Even the seagulls are happy. Glad I'm coming home again. Never again will I ever cause another tear to fall. Down the beach I see what belongs to me. The one I want most of all. Oh, devil woman, devil woman, don't follow me. Devil woman, let me be and leave me alone. I'm going back home. I'm going back home. Oh, the summertime is coming and the trees are sweetly blooming and the wild mountain pine grows around the blooming heather. Will you go, oh devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman, devil woman. I will build my love a town near your clear crystal fountain and on it I will build all the flowers of the mountain. Will you go, let me dispose. And we'll all go together to pluck wild mountain pine all around the blooming heather. Will you go, let me dispose. If my true love she were gone, I would surely find another where the wild mountain pine grows around the blooming heather. Will you go, let me dispose. And we'll all go together to pluck wild mountain pine all around the blooming heather. Will you go, let me dispose. Will you go, let me dispose. Well, we've come to the end of the program for this week. Thanks to all who contributed. Thanks to Bridie who produced the program. And thank you at home for listening. Please tune in again next week, same time, to the West Wind Blows. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. Bye for now. 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