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

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poem by Liam Wilkinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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