On a whim I passed through the carnival,
While it passed through me.
A mess of colours blackly ran,
And I tried to keep apart

From the dark, sad eyed faces
Barely glimpsed in the lack of light
That is the evening.
There was not a fisherman left in town,

And the fishing boats lay in the mud
Near the carnival’s siren lights.
Coming back uphill, I had to push
To avoid losing control of the bike.

And the faces seemed less sad -
They’re only passing the time left
Til the menai straits run dry
On their clothesline