throwaway poetry project, 2

zounds!
the hounds sound
hollow 'cross the heather.
walking there 'neath
violet clouds, swearing
violent weather,
a wind sends my cap
aloft and down, tipping
in a puddle.
tripping after o'er
the grassy mounds, my
fingers drip a wet hat red –
and strewth! there by my cap
i found blue figures in
the slipp'ry mud!
'sblood!