The Steeple-Jack

 Dürer would have seen a reason for living
 in a town like this, with eight stranded whales
to look at; with the sweet sea air coming into your house
on a fine day, from water etched
 with waves as formal as the scales
on a fish.


One by one in two's and three's, the seagulls keep
 flying back and forth over the town clock,
or sailing around the lighthouse without moving their wings --
rising steadily with a slight
 quiver of the body -- or flock
mewing where

a sea the purple of the peacock's neck is
 paled to greenish azure as Dürer changed
the pine green of the Tyrol to peacock blue and guinea
gray.
 You can see a twenty-five-
 pound lobster; and fish nets arranged
to dry.
 The

whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt
 marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the
star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so
much confusion.
 Disguised by what
 might seem the opposite, the sea-
side flowers and

trees are favored by the fog so that you have
 the tropics first hand: the trumpet-vine,
fox-glove, giant snap-dragon, a salpiglossis that has
spots and stripes; morning-glories, gourds,
 or moon-vines trained on fishing-twine
at the back door;

cat-tails, flags, blueberries and spiderwort,
 striped grass, lichens, sunflowers, asters, daisies --
yellow and crab-claw ragged sailors with green bracts -- toad-plant, 
petunias, ferns; pink lilies, blue
 ones, tigers; poppies; black sweet-peas.

The climate

is not right for the banyan, frangipani, or
 jack-fruit trees; or for exotic serpent
life.
 Ring lizard and snake-skin for the foot, if you see fit;
but here they've cats, not cobras, to
 keep down the rats.
 The diffident
little newt

with white pin-dots on black horizontal spaced-
 out bands lives here; yet there is nothing that
ambition can buy or take away.
 The college student
named Ambrose sits on the hillside
 with his not-native books and hat
and sees boats

at sea progress white and rigid as if in
 a groove.
 Liking an elegance of which
the sourch is not bravado, he knows by heart the antique
sugar-bowl shaped summer-house of
 interlacing slats, and the pitch
of the church

spire, not true, from which a man in scarlet lets
 down a rope as a spider spins a thread;
he might be part of a novel, but on the sidewalk a
sign says C.
 J.
 Poole, Steeple Jack,
 in black and white; and one in red
and white says

Danger.
 The church portico has four fluted
 columns, each a single piece of stone, made
modester by white-wash.
 Theis would be a fit haven for
waifs, children, animals, prisoners,
 and presidents who have repaid
sin-driven

senators by not thinking about them.
 The
 place has a school-house, a post-office in a
store, fish-houses, hen-houses, a three-masted schooner on
the stocks.
 The hero, the student, 
 the steeple-jack, each in his way,
is at home.


It could not be dangerous to be living
 in a town like this, of simple people,
who have a steeple-jack placing danger signs by the church
while he is gilding the solid-
 pointed star, which on a steeple
stands for hope.

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