The Inkwell

Egg

This ain’t no restaurant “French toast”

it’s made over burning logs

in the country air

Foundation for the morning

Set against a glorious sunrise

and cups of camp tea

Thick crusty bread

absorbed in a lake of

golden runniness

Bacon awaits its partner

as it cooks away

in its fat

Poor Man’s omelette ?

after a night on the hills

it’s the food of kings.

Knives and forks ?

or eaten as a sandwich

only quandry – sauce Red or Brown ?