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 –
and 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.
She was patron-saint of nothing
just a woman of the hills,
but 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 the hill.
She must be so lonely –
O 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?