There’s something in the light –
how it casts off these reluctant ghosts.
Spiders moth the house, wrapping each corner
in charmed geometrics
the spin of algebra and physics
until rooms are covered in thin silk,
doorways sealed with a spread of web.
Clouds shuffle this way and that,
not knowing where to turn.
There is an old sound in the trees’ creak,
a heeding in the apple-fall, as shadows
take up their beds
and walk into the sunset, shrugging
trunk and lamp-post from their shoulders.
There’s something in the light
as if it dipped an eyelash a quick blink
or hung itself on branches until wind shook it off
and the slow lumber of badger
took it in his lunge through undergrowth.
Fox holds it in his tail, the last glorious spark
of dusk he burns with it
it consumes him to ashes
as he runs the dark, light blazing from his fur
brush igniting bushes as he passes.
Something in the light, you say
as if it flipped your days like a pack of cards.
Already I see spiders weave your face
your skin alight
with a gleam of filaments.