It finds the park first, and the trees
    turn wavery and wet;
but all the extinguished traffic knows
    that it will drown the steeples yet.
 
The battered houses, rows of brick,
    are clear as quartz; the color thins
to amethyst, -the chimney-pots
    and weather-vanes stick up like fins.
 
And slowly down the fluid streets
    the cars and trolleys, goggle-eyed,
enamelled bright like gaping fish,
    drift home on the suburban tide.

Along the airy upper beach
    to the minutely glittering sky
two sand-pipers have stepped, and left
    four star-prints high and dry.

Beyond the town, subaqueous,
    the green hills change to green-mossed shells;
and at the church, to warn the ships above,
    eight times they ring the bells.


 = David Hoak