On Retreat - Arvon - The Clockhouse - Day 5

Hurst

There's a spider made of hair in my sock
And one in the bathroom, which converses with a fly
Long dead

There's a spider where wood meets wall
And another in my mind, which places mouth on memory
And webs

There's a forest god in a drinking glass
And one that dances when the steam hits

And one birthed in the cave of a lamp

There's a spider asleep in the downy folds of my bed
Who has more right to them than I - to spin a dream

~


I don't usually write poetry, but this one arrived this morning.

It's the last full day. Instead of a desperate urge to produce and demonstrate time well spent in pages, I feel strangely happy with the mix of it all - the walks and tea breaks, the cutting of paper and reading under a blanket.

Last night we shared again. Laura got the fire going and the house smelled like November.

We laughed for hours. We talked about insects and dwarf frogs and goldfish who betrayed us, and cemeteries and burial, and our own work - from years back, or from now, and we listened.

They helped me to figure out how I could play with time, weaving in the flashbacks. And in a moment my novel shifted into something else, something better. I struggled to sleep. Each night, after sharpening my mind on our conversations, sharing and a day of my book, I sleep worse than the last.

We drove into Craven Arms for super tack (as it turns out) and hayfever pills. Marvelled at the local butchers which was a man in a van by the side of a country road.

I stuck my plot to the wall where it can't blow away.

I finished my missing children PI book on my study sofa, grateful for the small and large ways it has influenced my story.

I am learning to live with the spiders.