Ted Hughes looks in the mirror
My eyebrows are as thick as thieves.
They hang like shags of tobacco
Above a nose like a wedge, a doorstop.
They could probably get knotted.
A chin juts out. A blunt,
Almost pointless boulder of bone,
Stuck out stern from the face.
The lips are as grim as poachers'.
Curving quietly, up to no good.
The furrow between them is rough:
They seem to snag on laughter.
Nothing much given away here.
And the hair, thick as quills
From which feathers are stripped:
Swept back by an oily rake.
There is great weight on my forehead.