Stand, stand statue-still, watch the clouds race from the south,
Collide, collapse and spill their cargo onto Portugal.
The hills and mountains where you hunted standing stones and passage tombs are Burren-black.
The clouds are whale-like, blue and granite, and slip by lowly overhead,
So that a flown kite could tickle their bellies.
The warm wind bears moisture for a change,
And in the beads of water hide essences of a parched Castilian countryside.