Spider

She has drawn up the portcullis of her legs, Like a hunting sea anemone. The flimsy artefact that is her web Is slung like a pirate's hammock, Like a net that waits For the delicious shudder When the high wire artist falls. Debris of a daddy-longlegs Lies on the stone ledge Under her live-in larder, Expelled from Miss Arachne's Mincing mouth, Surplus to current requirements - Like unhinged meccano, Nuts and bolts tastefully removed. The legs are the wheels Of a stalled car In the breaker's yard, Disjointed. Going nowhere.