I.
Only this morning the calm ocean, flat
and bright as a Homeric epithet,
stretched glimmering eastward out from where we stood
and gazed, our backs to Mrs Church's wood
of sculptured yewtrees. End of August. End
of watching eider ducks paddle beyond
the visible horizon and spread wide
and wider ripples, lapping slowly out of sight -
those dimples always difficult to see
yet squinted for each morning. Finally
we had to pull our eyes away. At nine
the boat would go, we'd leave the bowl of brine
we'd paddled for a month in: water's edge
and tennis court, damp library, rock ledge
to perch on, stare at starlight from. Climb down
from rocks to ferry. Harbor. Highway. Town.

II.
And towns, towns, towns, each name
...