That Time of Year

Spider season. Big hairy house spiders in the bath, or on the wall at 3am. Filimentous cellar spiders all over the ceilings with their untidy webs that never seem to catch mozzies, just collect dust. Today is eviction day for the extra-legged throng.

Housework is boring, so here’s a poem:

That Time of Year

Late summer’s last breath
brings thistle down shadows
creeping through open windows.

By winter-tide,
when storms leaf amber
weather warnings
in newspapers
clotting bypasses,
we have a growing population
of white-kneed, web-trembling
semi-social cellar spiders,
impossibly thin, head-high
in our basement bathroom.

If only they defended against
the hairy menace of
tarantula-impersonating house spiders,
their fragile beauty
would be celebrated,
untidy webs tolerated.
Preyless, anorexic they survive,
offering mosquitoes
silk-veiled sanctuary.

Now,
windows battened against
wild storms, insects and arachnids,
eviction begins.

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2 Responses to That Time of Year

  1. Well done a good poem ro the little buggers which launch at me by crawling across my desk, then keyboard. Aggghh!

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