The halls of mirror you use
Break off in the eye
And crunch at a blink
Only the sound of cracked branch,
Underfoot endures
At a lingering touch
The reflection ripples
And bends and all is lost
But the colour of the man
And that burnt smell
Of bacon remains
Then, to pull out the shard
Or cup the quivering pool
And to look upon that
With a keen and tight scope
And, there! There he is, the
Country-boy come caveman
Caught shimmering in the dew
Of the bracken floor
A black navy coat
Hunting dry twig for his
Miniature teepee
To be set to flame
And render the animal flesh
Breakfast
