And tap, tap faintly on the beach.
Digging little holes for an elfin folk,
Pointing up the water like a grate;
And the sky moves closer like a gust of smoke
And behind it crouch and wait
Great half shapes and grey cloud apes,
And a grey, old water crew,
And the lake birds fly with their wings awry,
Searching in their faces for the blue.
Now the long rain chants in the grasses on the hill,