Elegy On The Garden Flat
Spiders like you've never eaten,
born in the night, in out of the rain.
That's the inevitable souvenir
of a year spent hunched beneath
new webs, spent stiffening shoulders
at the minute threshold of a tense cavity
- the freshly acquired taste for arachnids.
(A moment's silence
as we remember the day
we flushed the wiped-up trails away.)
We never found out where they came in
or, indeed, where they went out. And if.
You swore you heard crunching in the carpet.
*
Leaves died, and after them, the trees. And
when the rain came, the autumnal drains
would drown at our doorstep. Nature had
a habit of being intimate, to the extent of
being intrusive.
And as for the garden flat -
each saturated twist of leg
and grounded wet wing
would go there to die.
poem by Liam Wilkinson
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