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2 poems by Robin Vaughan-Williams

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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