Crane flies hang from the door lintel, dangle their cotton-thread legs in my face; they appear as if from nowhere, have secret business. They seem immune to the spiders’ webs strung out to trap them,
Crane flies hang from the door lintel, dangle their cotton-thread legs in my face; they appear as if from nowhere, have secret business. They seem immune to the spiders’ webs strung out to trap them, perhaps because of the dew that glitters on that treacherous silk: cool night condensed into cooler morning. While wasps, hung over from yesterday’s bingeing on windfalls lurch into sunlight, try to keep warm, ready themselves for one last fruit hurrah And we sort through winter jumpers, stockpile logs, try not to think about the retreat that follows.
Beth Brooke
Beth Brooke is a retired teacher. She now lives in Dorset, close to the wonderful Jurassic Coast. Her debut collection is due to be published by Hedgehog Press next year.