Arachnophilia

nature insect macro spider
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Arachnophilia

Little Miss Schneiders has always loved spiders:
From miniscule monies to long-leggèd striders,
From purse-webs to orb-webs, to nursery sheet-webs,
From cobbled-up cobwebs to fussily-neat webs.
With eight legs and eight eyes (unless they have six eyes)
And just the right size to pose no sort of threat.
She loves all the spiders, does Little Miss Schneiders,
And thinks that tarantulas make a fine pet –
Who needs a red setter when eight legs are better ?
(Her parent won’t let her, but she’s hopeful yet.)

Little Miss Schneiders is smitten with spiders,
From burrowing wolves to ballooners and gliders.
But best of all, surely, is knowing how Britain’s
Are pussies – as cute and as gentle as kittens.
Imagine Australia !  What lurks inside her ?
There’s trapdoor and funnelweb, huntsman and redback !
But not for Miss Schneiders, who’s safe to love spiders –
For all of her widows are false, and not black.

Ev’ry September sees Little Miss Schneiders
Go searching the skirting and combing the coving –
For this is the season when spiders go roving,
The scent-spinning ladies and amorous lads,
All looking to hook-up as mammas and dads.
From bath-tub and cellar to guinea-pig hutch,
And under the pelmets there’s eggs by the clutch.
They dance on the walls and they sprint ’cross the rugs
For eight gorgeous eyes and for eight-leggèd hugs.

Little Miss Schneiders has always loved spiders –
They’re bigger than beetles and faster than slugs !

 

 

September Showers

 

acorns

 

September Showers

Acorns crunch beneath my boots –
There’s far too many for the looting squirrels, howe’er keen.
Are these too green ?  Are these too brown ?
A breeze shakes down a hail of fruits –
I pick one up and pop it from its birthing cup,
And wonder if an acorn dreams
Of pleated barks and soaring beams –
And what if ev’ry one of these took root ?
This lane would be athwart with trees !
Just think of how a trunk might shoot
From ev’ry acorn, where they lay:
Many just an inch or two apart, I’d say –
How long before their saplings start
To touch, and merge, from verge to verge,
Until a hedge of oak will choke
This ancient right of way ?
But if I take one home with me,
Perhaps that wall will bare a gap
Where flows no sap and grows no tree –
But as I turn to leave, I see
Another drizzle fill the lane,
And when I try to find my spot
I cannot – all is acorns once again.

 

 

September

autumn avenue bench fall
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

September

Birds are flocking,
Doors are locking,
Autumn’s knocking once again.
Seeds are podding,
Berries nodding,
Workers plodding from the train.
Skies are frowning,
Leaves are browning,
Hats are crowning, coats are on.
Days are cooling,
Rains are pooling,
Kids are schooling –
Summer’s gone.

 

 

Royal Wedding

brown black white butterfly on green leaf plant
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Royal Wedding

There, on every table,
As the best man gave his speech,
There was a box, about a hand’s-width each.
With a couple of pretty bows,
And little holes in rows.

The day was cooling off
As the sun was slipping down the sky.
A blackbird sang duets
With the buzzing of a fly,
And the garden’s sweet perfume was in full bloom.

And then the moment came
At the bidding of the bride:
The bows were soon untied
As we gingerly undid the lid,
To find a single butterfly inside.

Large, by British standards,
Their leaded-lights stained orange-red,
And quick enough they roused from bed.
Their wings all beating seagull-slow
As up away they go.

A cloud of monarch butterflies –
A plague, almost, a scarlet host
To start the dance and lead the toast –
A starling-swarm, a bridal crown,
Confetti that went up instead of down.

They soon dispersed into the beds,
A doddle for a bug collector –
Crowding any flowers still in nectar.
A little sugar on the hand,
And maybe we could bring one in to land.

But if, like any wedding guest,
They hoped to meet their future mate,
Or else at least to score a date,
Well, better come on strong:
They’d all be dead before too long.

And as for starting families,
They’d find no milkweed here.
Their kids will starve to death, I fear.
Some metaphor for wedded life:
A pushy groom and barren wife !

News Snooze Cues Muse Schmooz

selective focus photography of two orange drinks
Photo by Valeria Boltneva on Pexels.com

 

News Snooze Cues Muse Schmooz

I met her in the silly season:
Ace reporter Lisa Leeson –
Met her in the Summer, as it moved from high to late.
She said she newly had the time
For chilling with a gin and lime,
And meeting with a stranger for a secret steamy date.
Until the real news arrived,
She churned-out waffle, faffed and skived,
To dodge the z-list luvvie-spotting at the village fete.
And so we spent the Summertime
Away from wars and wonks and crime,
And nothing went on happening in law and trade and state.

Not a love-nest, romp or threesome,
Just myself and Lisa Leeson,
While the ever-greedy presses must procrastinate –
And so we joined our choice of queues,
With not a thought to check reviews,
For visits to the restaurants, the movies and the Tate.
But Summer changed to Autumn brown,
And cooler breezes teased the town,
And she could hear the calling of the headlines and the hate.
So Lisa Leeson bid farewell,
And broke our silly Summer’s spell
By quitting idle drifting for a world that would not wait.

Open Season

summer garden yellow petals
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Open Season

August is a month that’s open wide,
When windows welcome in outside
And shoulders sport their freckled with a pride.

August is a month of empty woes,
Of open necks and open toes,
And bright unfolded blooms upon the rose.

August is a month of busy highs,
With covered heads and shaded eyes,
But still with smiles as open as the skies.

 

 

Tiger-Hawker

nature blue animal transparent
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Tiger-Hawker

Zigger-buzzing, flitter-flying,
To and fro and fro and to –
A dragonfly is zagging-by,
His body shiny-new.
Ready for the slaughter,
With his goggles on and paint-job dry –
For three years, underwater,
He has somehow learned to fly.

A fighter jet, a microlight,
With wings of cellophane –
Drunk yet nimble in his flight,
He circles round, and round again.
A regal blur, a day-glow streak,
Who never rests from his deploy –
But when he does, he’s plastic-sleek:
This summer’s latest toy.

I meet him, though, in hot July,
Some distance from the river bank.
So jealous in his patch of sky,
He watches for a rival’s flank –
But they won’t come, and neither will
The ladies that he’s longing for.
So here he is, patrolling still:
A soldier who’s misplaced his war.