I wrote my poem The Black Dog in response to this week’s W3 Poetry Prompt #183. The prompt—devised by the Poet of the Week, Artie Camenzind—was to write a poem of any form, no more than 240 words, that weaves a mystery (delightful or frightening) into its lines.
False Tabs
You may have heard the theatrical expression False Tabs—used when an actor takes a bow, exits the stage, and then reappears. I feel a bit like that. In my post The Black Cap a few weeks ago, I said that poem might be my last for a while, as I’d received a couple of painting commissions and wouldn’t have time to write.
Well… turns out, even in the midst of busyness, I’m still finding time to write poems. It’s amazing what can be done during lunch breaks, tea breaks, toilet breaks—and by staying up far too late!
Here’s one I wrote while watching the sun come up. Who needs sleep anyway?
The Black Dog
Lost on the moor. Fog thick as fear. A man alone… someone—or something—is following him.
The low-lying mist shrouds the moor,
Where no sane bird would fly,
Nor anyone with any sense
Would venture here to die.
The wind is cruel in chilling force,
Relentless on its unstoppable course.
My un-gloved fingers feel quite numb—
I fear, to frostbite they’ll succumb.
I should’ve stayed with my broken-down car,
But now I’ve wandered far too far.
I’m lost in the glum and scary gloom—
I fear that now I’ll meet my doom.
A cold wind snaps with icy teeth,
Chattering in long-sentenced howls.
Upon the dark and lonely heath,
Something unknown behind me growls.
A twig cracks—I spin around.
There is a sniffing, shuffling sound.
I gasp, and in a whispered tone, I cry:
“Oh shit! Whatissit‽ —I’m going to die.”
The hairs rise on my neck and head.
My heart beats fast—and faster still;
Drumming like heavy metal’s hi-hat shrill,
And loud as a ghetto blaster—
Something wants me dead.
A moon shines an eerie blue
Through the dank and dreary fog.
Dark shadows skulk where moonlight bathes,
And one looks like a big black dog.
Misty swirls snake in long, thin swathes.
The owls are silent—no twit-twoo.
Something is following me—
I don’t know what… or who.
Who or what lurks behind that tree—
The tree that leans, misshapen, and willowy?
My phone is flat—I’ve no GPS.
I’m stranded alone in the wilderness.
It’s unknown what became of me…
And will remain a mystery.
—Lesley Scoble, October 2025
Music Audio – The Black Dog 🎶
Because I adore applause, I’ve added a clapometer—just for fun!
THANK YOU
Thank you, Artie, for your inspiring prompt.
Thank you, David—The Skeptic’s Kaddish—as always, for your wonderful creative encouragement.
And my thanks to you, dear reader, for spending time with my poem.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
To discover more about David’s weekly poetry prompt please follow the link below.
LesleyScoble.com 
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