A Spider in the House
It knows the night
is a web to walk on,
lives in the hollows
left by time:
a birch-twig
shadow in the corner
of your eye, crouched
at the hinge of the walls,
or moving like a cursor
tangled in letters,
a chatter of legs
quick as fear.
Its clockwork is wound
tighter than yours,
the speed of its dial
is faster.
Sometimes they stop,
the eight buckled hands
of a watch, still
at the moment of death.
Tonight, the ticking
behind its meter
of eyes has a patience
quiet as sleep.
Your two worlds
inhabit each other.
It travels in the hours
that you do not.
You are lucky
to wake as it enters.
To see the spider
is to be warned.
By the four corners
of the unlit room
it measures the absence
of your dreams.
Gregory Leadbetter
If you've any comment on his poem, Gregory Leadbetter would be pleased to hear from you.