Untitled Spider Poem Copyright © Richard Whiting 2010

There is a spider’s web by the back door.
All silk-finish, water-jewelled
A crane-fly in its midst
Tiring now, beyond desperation
Only his front legs move
Like a channel swimmer’s arms
Reaching for the Cap Gris Nez.

The spider sits motionless:
Complacent. Liking his lips
Waiting for the last gasp of death;
Waiting for his dinner-bell.

Everyday I fly into the web;
Strangled by the weaver’s work.
Caught by sixty-seven threads
Where there used to be sixty-five.

The harder you thrash
The more you are caught.

It seems as if I’m in retreat;
Executing the backstroke,
Losing site of land
Yearning for the spider’s jaw.