Moving in
A spider on the carpet
evades my A–Z
but crawls inside when I offer her a packet
of pocket tissues.
Does she feel an atmospheric change
as she abseils to the ground?
* * *
Treading over dead wasps
scattered over the kitchen floor
on an empty stomach.
I pick them by their wings
pinched between fingernails
unsure if their stings
have dried with them.
* * *
The ladybirds are next—
scouting the windows
for a way in.
I find them clustered
on a loop of flex
over the curtain rail.
When I let the sun in
a shower of bodies
tumbles with the light.
Temporary Accommodation
The spider outside
seems to be getting bigger.
It hangs from the clothesline.
A flock of pegs clings on
at barbed-wire angles,
a rattle for infant eyes.
Others lie shattered on the ground,
wind beaten, unsprung
by sudden cold.
T-shirts drift beneath door frames,
chairs are towel-wrapped,
radiators scantily clad
horses of their former selves,
damp breath rising.
Mould blooms behind the head board.
_______________________
Robin Vaughan-Williams has a background in live literature in Sheffield and Nottingham, he published his first pamphlet, The Manager with Happenstance Press. He has run poetry improvisation workshops, volunteered with Ministry of Stories, and currently supports the creative community in Hounslow.
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