The drama of weather for people of the land city folk seldom understand It’s the drama of life of potato death in 1846 of wet sods beside a cold house in ’04 of essential gardens dying dry Pray for rain, we ask the priest who says he will but not until the wind is in the south Now the clouds look cumbersome not like they find it fun to skid across the sky Yet for all their solid look the south wind buffets them so at times brilliant sun flashes through And the priest prays But the clouds pass on delivering their favors to County Clare The priest could not be certain after all South wind can be mistaken