The Picnic - a poem

I took lunch alone today, upon the lakeside grass.
Remember the patch, it stays dry throughout the noon?

Whereupon, I unlatched my hamper's clasp,
Smelled and spied wonders to the spoon;
Roasted grebe, caught upon this very mere,
Salted meats that were animal until speared,
Washed straight down with thick black beer.

And in the water's reflection a face appeared:
A stranger to my eyes, the face afeared,
Warped by ripples and upon my vision, seared -
White froth clinging to the fronds of his own white beard.