Mist(ery) (Poetry)

They said it would be clear by one —
the mist burned off — we’d see the sun
but minutes grimly ticked on by
and still an unforgiving sky
brooded — heavy — grey as grey
to cap another freezing day.

They change the forecast every hour
to fit the weather’s icy glower
yet their prediction’s way off track —
it thins a bit and then rolls back
until the time’s approaching four
when it hangs thicker than before.

Whatever instruments they use
perhaps give false, misleading clues
to what’s outside — conditions now
are worse — so it’s a puzzle how
these ‘experts’ bungle blindly on
and get it so completely wrong.

The mist is pressed against the glass
at half past four the day’s near-past
a curtain’s drawn that hides the trees
shuts off the world by chill degrees ...

A useful forecast would have said
“It’s cold and foggy — stay in bed!”