The paint was weathered to a mere acrostic
Which cold unfocussed eyes could never read—
But jerking a derisive thumb behind it
Up a rough stream-wet path “The Witches’ Cauldron
One Mile.” Only a mile
For two good hours of stumbling steeplechase!
There was a dead snake by some humorous hand
Twined on the pointing finger; far away
A bull roared hoarsely, but all else was mist.
Then anger came upon him, in which heat