The weathervane was rusting and blowing in the wind,
Like the whirling dervish, dancing by the stream.
I wondered of her mystic past;
Was it bitter or sweet?
I asked her if she played a tune, or only swung for me.

In a trance she called me, round and round we’d spin;
Strolling through my fantasy, playing in my tent.
Could it be she was never still?
Did she ever rest?
Would she continue reeling around with vigorous energy?

The winds slipped quickly past her; above her head were clouds;
Beneath the shattered shingles, underneath my brow.
The onion dome was peeled away.
The paint fell from the edge.
The wire and lines spoke of time never to be relived.

Yellow speckled mortar, against a seafoam green;
Broken panes of ancient glass, wanting to be cleaned.
I was curious of her maker;
Had he see her ruin?
Did he know her life of joy or notice her graceful turns?

Did he know her jitter-bug or see her Highland fling,
Or see her subtle steps in the dance of fertility?
Rumba, samba, disco –
Flamenco, or Irish jig.
Perhaps I’ll join in the tea dance and let her carry me.