(based on suggestions from my mum)
Someone’s put the screech owl on repeat;
a Wilhelm scream in compilation.
Everyone did it. Not some Orient Express malarkey,
it’s just there’s not enough murderers left
so we’re having to double up.
When did you last commit?
Joyce’s hair has always been a crime,
but no one wrote a car-crash overture for her.
The whole hour and a half could be shot
in a pub through the bottom of Weronika’s pint glass.
It’s hardly Kieślowski, but stab in some
Preisner, a fox in the hedgerow, a half of bitter,
and you’ll have a perfect tri-colour symphony.
Tonight's poem is based on suggestions from my mum ("Write a poem about Midsomer Murders!"), and my overnight dreams about Kieślowski film soundtracks.