Home – Poetry

January 31, 2012


My heart sinks another inch onto my stomach,
the pressure growing and growing.
The day has started but I cannot.
Impetus to move feints and then capitulates
in more of a whiff than a spark.
The television is my lonely update
of outside existence, crackling on
between sessions of aimless longing.
The fan clicks. The air-con faintly groans. I listen,
saliva pooling in my mouth.
The single window is blockaded by red brick neighbours
looming like Stalin’s guards.
A spider clings onto the pane.
Its web’s tight weaving is ragged;
most strings hang loose and droop
or stick to the dusty glass.
A rasp of wind shakes the web
and the spider wobbles and bobs.
Still it hangs, unflinching at its lot and
each night rebuilds to endure the same tomorrow.
As I doze the sun crosses the sill
into twilight and darkness.

I wake to the glow of static television
humming nothings along with the fridge.
Outside a magpie sings, gurgling sweet liquid,
taunting me to rise with its sickly notes.
I seize the curtains and hang on them, preparing
for the light that sweeps the room.
Overcast-white flashes from a shrouded sun
but it’s the spider-less window that stuns.
Its web, too, has been packed and taken
or every thread eaten and savoured.
Did something terrible flare
in the night as it wove its lines?
Or did it just decide when a house
is not a home? I face this day
with a question on my mind.
When do spiders leave?



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