The thread of a spider
billows on the blind
stubborn in its refusal
to blow away
dust awaits my departure
and descends
when I leave
with my spray and my cloth
all is decay
A dead bird lies
on our flat roof
slick with fresh rain
I await a strong wind
to usher its departure
and think of the garden
overrun with weeds
my father laboured
under Adam's curse
and still all is decay
And you, young teacher
pregnant with hope
stubborn in its refusal
to blow away
the words sputter onto the page
like stale water
unfit even
for the cleansing of hands
at least your day job brings in a cheque
you labour
and you curse
and all is decay
