Poor spiders, always drowning
The two roasting tin spiders were buried under a rosebush, I decided it would be the respectful thing to do; plus then they would become spider-ghost house guardians, always a useful addition to any household. The other weird thing I discovered one morning in our kitchen was the burnt earwig, standing in the middle of a gas hob, like an insect at Pompeii, a perfect ash statue of itself.
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Mouse cremations are rarely
Observed but here is an apostrophied
Corpse on a dried grass mound
Waiting for a starting spark
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Stride through stratus, back to
My crumbly house, the sun
Also pushes, promises later
Heat, as this mist dissipates
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Drama occurs in the roasting
Rack tin when two spiders are
Found drowned in the pig’s blood
Under the dinner joint
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There are thirteen folk arts
Vital to this industrious cottage
Roasting meat is listed third
One of six respecting food
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Mindful preparation of meals
Decelerates pace, accedes time
To love the taste of these
Our best and simplest pleasures
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Washing up versus procrastination
More vacillation than opposition
As part of the internal debate
All cutlery is gathered into one saucepan
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Organisation allows an overview and
It seems the number of plates is
Surmountable, so I will reach out
To the hot tap and the bubble mix
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The glasses are rinsed first, generating
Maximum exultant sparkle, then as
Plates enjoy a relaxing scrub
Last night’s spice colours the water
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Cutlery leans in the drainer caddy
Reflects multiples of me, ringing
Out the cloth, rediscovering the ease
Of washing up and hesitations cleared
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While I shower, a third
Spider drowns, under the froth
Of shampoo, a farewell swirl of
Legs in the plug vortex
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