The huntsman’s as big as a dinner plate, on the wall
watching patiently for something to fill her.
She’s gone when I boil the kettle, back behind heath paddock
the large McCubbin print from the bric a brac shop.
I’m guessing that’s where she idles, a true original
day dreaming between the parched dock,
all those works waiting to spring forth, or whatever spiders do.
I don’t want the manic dash of disturbance, no descent in
a crazy spiral run or upside down across the ceiling
in that dizzy way, that keeps you guessing about destination.
Those eight eyes don’t see any hemispheric difference –
in global domination the segmented legs annex
the defiant gravity, surface rippling as she passes
submerged in water that isn’t there.
First published in Australian Poetry, Poem of the Fortnight
The Leviathan’s Apprentice March 2015
James Walton Poetry 