The wind from the west whips up sand from the bay
The tide grabs the boats, and it takes them away.
A sough from the south brings you air that is warm,
but if it hits the north wind, you're in for a storm.
It's the wind from the east that has the most range,
It gallops through barley, and makes young people go strange,
And if you're not careful, when the wind changes tack,
They'll leave with the East Wind, and never come back.
And that's the wind too, that brings us the wrecks,
With seaweed for rigging, and crabs on their decks.
And unspeakable horrors alive in the hold.
Their eyes on stalks, and their skin wet and cold.
Sometimes there are people, now nothing but bone,
Who all promised their loved ones that they'd come safely home.
We bury them on a hill, looking out to the sea,
In the hope that they look out on where their homes used to be.
The young in town wonder why the aged ones mutter,
When the flags on the rooves take on an easterly flutter.
They look to the hill, then hide their faces in their glasses,
And hold their children's hand, until the easterly passes.
