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. This 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.
