IN THE TOWER
In the fustian gloom of the tower
something moves to give room to spiders.
the lips of hell part with a smile
pleased with its progeny and its guile
and the sun slinks away
from its slit in the wall
where archers of old
felled the pressing horde.
Nothing has ever left these chambers
and fear congeals with rotting straw
strewn across the stone flagged floor
where creep and crack speak low
of something we should not wish to know.