The Wind

Catherine liked high places
High up on the hills
A place for making noises
Noises like the whales
Here she built a chapel with
Her image on the wall
A place where she could rest and
A place where she could wash
And listen to the wind blow
She dreamt of children’s voices
And torture on the wheel
Patron-Saint of nothing
A woman of the hills
She once was a lady
Of pleasure, and high-born
A lady of the city
But now she sits and moans
And listens to the wind blow
I see her in her chapel
High up on a hill
She must be so lonely
Oh Mother, can’t we give
A husband to our Catherine?
A handsome one, a dear
A rich one for the lady
Someone to listen with