House Share At Lawhitton

As winter moved in, so too the spiders.
They had favoured the bathroom, redecorating corners with grey trails of silk. Little beady black species was superseded by the leggy danglers, the ones that swing in close proximity, as though trading gossip. Possibly about the mysterious slump in the population of the little beady black spiders?
Do arachnids burp?

House-spiders are shy this year, they blush behind furniture until we sleep: then who knows? Perhaps they make themselves tea and toast, switch on the lamp, perch up spectacles and read, crossing a few legs, passing opinion on local events.
(Just because they’re cannibals does not mean that they are uncivilised.)

Moths had called by and eaten part of Mr’s most comfortable trousers. Perhaps we do not understand their fashions: perhaps they had tried to make lace?
Was it them that woke the butterfly?

It is perplexing, yes, this inability to pursue understanding, yet in the margin for error is room to spin.
I ask the bathroom slugs, two dainty invertebrates, rhetorically; what to spin?
Without shoulders they do well to mimic shrugging.
(They are not pleased by rhetoric. They much prefer something green, with a broad leaf and soft rolled shoots. So I spin what I see; this story.)

In the eaves, birds line nests.
In the rafters, mice will be chewing something.
Lizards sleep.
The bees are long gone from the chimney pot.