A clean, cream carpet,
Glittering glass: a squeaky carapace.
Grand, old, oak bookcase,
Slide in spines. Covers carefully confined -
Embraced between the dust-free shelves. Enshrined.
Polish the coffee table to a gloss,
With wax from bees – cold cream for deceased trees.

The toilet protrudes from plaster like a
Porcelain-capped tooth.
My pearly bath, each nacreous tile agleam,
And shower pod: a pristine, plastic dream.
Such taps! Platinum sculptures,
Which rupture
The shining, sacred sepulchre of sink:
My marvellously marbled monolith.
I cup my hands to drink.
Reflections: the twinkling of insect eyes,
Tiny twitches – like the dying limbs of flies.

But round the wooden ridge of window frame,
Seen through the lens of glazed, pellucid pane,
There cluster lace-edged knots of spider seeds –
Skeins stuffed with squirling, squirming, thronging beads:
Silk sacks of legs and throbbing abdomens.

A vision: vestal virgin-bottled bleach,
Between the sponges, cans and sprays I reach.

Candyfloss cocoons, festering festoons,
Slashed at by searing, slicing, squirting spears.
The atomised elixir saturates.
Finally, furious and nauseous,

A big one breaks out,

She, sopping, writhing, stabbing at the air,
Flails fitfully and spirals from her lair.

Fast fading – and her babies all at rest –
The chill, grave thought: How fragile is a nest?