The Woodshed Spider

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