The Woodshed Spider
The spider in the woodshed knows
how sounds enlarge when shadows grow.
She hears the woodlouse as he chews,
observing him, she stirs her muse
to wonder at this platelet suit,
articulate yet common brute
whose loyalty to colony
is quite the opposite of she
whose privacy is paramount.
The woodshed spider feels a tug
upon her viscous welcome rug,
reminding her of murder’s pangs;
fresh venom permeates her fangs.
Old daddy long legs never sees
the woods for all the chopped up trees
nor shards of moonlight glistening
on webs of spiders, listening
for victims in their body count.
The woodshed spider’s work is swift,
the first job for her graveyard shift,
she bites old daddy till he’s dead
then hoards him for her daily bread.
The woodlouse in the corner chews,
he has no time to heed the news
of insects dying in their droves;
he knows that it would ill behove
a louse like him to take account.
21/12/19