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