The West                                                              versione italiana

He asked me if I would like to see the photos
he had taken back there when,
that blue-skied summer was warm.
How could I say no.

There they were so,
slow gentle cattle standing on a beach,
moving amongst the same
fine gold sand

I had been buried in as a child.

With the beckoning sea pulling behind
towards a promising land,
and so too those greens,
rapture of emerald-scented grasses,
inscrutable, curly-horned rams,
Atlantic blown,

from around the bay

I heard a sax give his tune to the ocean,

and through it all

ran the hard, dappled grey,

walls of stone men had made,

they fenced nothing in,
and let yet nothing really out.