Blessed the soul of the hunter, who cried in his poor bare throat, <br />seeing noon in a sky-net motionless over stones washed hollow, <br />and turned from his goat-horned gods, to kneel in a sea-cave, strangely, <br />facing the new air whining from dripweed shores. <br /> <br />We were the awful circus, the pantomime riders <br />who came in their metal birds to the edge of the greenstone <br />and laughed uder the plate of high noon, <br />when we found, clean by a kingpin rock, his knee-bones.<br /><br />Eric Ratcliffe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hunter-5/
