CHANT OF THE CHURCH WEATHERCOCK
I POINT to the North. I watch the wind
Beat from the Pole the snows like driven game ; But there is no gun on the empty moor of the soul ; No wealthy southern body, sleek as the sun, to aim.
I turn to the East. I watch the wind Crouch like a beast in a flurry of sleet, And stalk the liver of Colonel Curry And pounce at the corner of Chapel Street.
I slide to the South. I watch the wind Enticing the lovers together mouth to mouth ; Children go blooming and naked as flowers: the old Forget what the doctors told them, because of the weather.
I slope to the West. Wind dies and the day is done. Blue smoke stands vertical: now like an autumn leaf Falls from the windless western tree the sun, And Man is left to rest and the night's tremendous " If."
And should you look up and espy me vacillating At midnight, veering and backing, and hear me crow ;- Count your silver and know I am waiting, waiting, For Peter's wind to blow.
• PATRIC DICKINSON.
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