Aranea Futilis Poem by Alex Rosak

He made a tentative move with one leg,
the other seven followed suit.
Each step took him inches towards
another urge to move inches forward
or in the direction that took his fancy.
He made it all the same.

He spun round and round
seemingly endlessly, but getting
closer to the centre of his sphere
with each rotation.
He didn't know why he did it
but he couldn't not.

Suddenly he found he had a home
which he had made for himself
without trying
and sitting here seemed the thing
to do, until a bluebottle
found an unwise stopping-off point
and became breakfast,

until a woman with an enormous broom
and flat-soled shoes
destroyed his empire, turned it to gossamer,
made him a part of the concrete
as she blew away the conwebs
on a well-swept garden path.