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