The courtyard garden has become a trap:
Each plant is draped with sticky spider-lace
Whose live meat-parcels brush against my face.
Whichever way I take, some web-lines snap
And predators come hustling after prey:
Striped black and tan, the forelegs lead
Their bloated bellies, feeling for a feed.
All that’s left of sunflowers: a display
Of beat-up cushions, hanging in the sky.
The willow tree stands empty now, its linnets flown;
Death rustles as grey leaves are stripped and blown.
An autumn spider sucks the summer dry.
We have to leave. We will not see next spring.
What then will bloom? And will the linnets sing?
© Sue Lansdell