Spider Poem by Sheena Blackhall

She has drawn up the portcullis of her legs,
Like a hunting sea anemone.

The flimsy artefact that is her web
Is slung like a pirate's hammock,
Like a net that waits
For the delicious shudder
When the high wire artist falls.

Debris of a daddy-longlegs
Lies on the stone ledge
Under her live-in larder,
Expelled from Miss Arachne's Mincing mouth,
Surplus to current requirements -
Like unhinged meccano,
Nuts and bolts tastefully removed.
The legs are the wheels
Of a stalled car
In the breaker's yard,
Disjointed.
Going nowhere.