Joining the Spiders

Caught out in the wrong shoes,

I choose to join the spiders

in a crevice in the old park wall.


To them, all weather

is the same; all time

is time to do some work.


I watch them working, watch

their old webs breathing

as I breathe, now tilting brickwards,


now tilting back, laced

with shreds of sycamore

and pigeon down. I wonder


if I stay here long enough

might they take me in –

reduce me


to a crescent of fingernail,

a snatch of hair – induct me

to their way of being there, stoically


sticking to one thing.

Then a robin

cocks his little head as if to query


why I’m crouched here like a toad

when the rain has stopped

and all these worms are ours for the taking.