It’s a small town. The wind blows past
The dunes, and sands the wide street.
The flagstones are wet, in places thick with glass,
Long claws of scattering light.
The names are lonely, the shutters blank ––
No one’s around when the wind blows.
The mistress of novices has sent all the novices
Upstairs into the choir to practise
The service for deliverance from storms and thunder.
Their light dapples the sharkskin windows,
The harmonium pants uphill,
The storm plucks riffs on the high tower.
And on the fair green the merry-go-round
Whistles and whirls. The old man has joined
His helper on the plinth. He calls his son
To throw him a rope, and watch for a loosening
Strut or a pelmet or the whole wheel
Spinning lifting and drifting and crashing.
But it spins away, grinding up speed,
Growling above the thunder. The rain
Has begun again; the old man’s helper,
Darkfaced with a moustache, holds on.
They try to slow it with their weight,
Calling to the youngster to hang on the rope;
It’s a small town, a small town;
Nowhere to go when the wind blows.