Poem: Welsh Mist

13th September 2021

Village far end, incessant pointless barking.
A dog getting mad at its own mist-echo…?
Plenty round here thick enough for that!
Or spooked, maybe, by the vaporous silence:
This movementless mufflement –
Apart from the odd lastfeed bee,
Panic-plicking roostbound bird.

No shore-murmur, no air-stir;
Not one car hum these last ten minutes.
So – is there a big match on?
Don’t know, couldn’t care:
Never any interest in money-poisoned sport.

© Christopher Jessop 2021

No handwritten draft for this one:
I transcribed to screen straight from my pocket recorder.