A pork sausage split like an Indian canoe;
A fallen tree on a Norn Irish morning -
Gristle-snap, chip-van meaty-hot.
Salty bacon, thick lug slices,
Laid down in walloping pleats;
Its corrugated pinkness, a truffle-rub.
And a fried egg, the yolk, a flurried sea
Bursting warm banks into the palate;
Its lace skirt(s) hanging over like a counter-pane,
All cushioned in a hand-grab fist of farl;
A land-grab spiel, a garble of vowels:
Oh aye, Och aye!
Red or Brown sauce.
To peel off the milk-flat from the tae,
And downed with the last swirls of the pot
Brewed beyond the black hills of our diachronic mystery.