Rewritten Slightly
Cobwebs
She's up every morning with the birds
and brings me tea that's pure,
cold water from the pump by the back door.
The power's on tomorrow, she tells me.
Today it's cobwebs:
I hunch under my blanket,
and listen as she apologises
to every damn spider.
Surely it makes us stronger, she tells them,
in the voice like a thrush that runs
over dead leaves and rises in the end,
to lose our homes
and build them over?
(I have two more poems to write. Agh!)
She's up every morning with the birds
and brings me tea that's pure,
cold water from the pump by the back door.
The power's on tomorrow, she tells me.
Today it's cobwebs:
I hunch under my blanket,
and listen as she apologises
to every damn spider.
Surely it makes us stronger, she tells them,
in the voice like a thrush that runs
over dead leaves and rises in the end,
to lose our homes
and build them over?
(I have two more poems to write. Agh!)