The Punch Clock’s Spider

Woven round the turnstile
A victim-spun roulette
The loom of slaver’s guile

To harvest well in style
The slaver spreads his net
Woven round the turnstile

Twinkling an eight-eyed smile
On headlong preys it’s set
The loom of slaver’s guile

What unlaboured stockpile
Of victims’ blood and sweat
Woven round the turnstile

Drools of venomous bile
On deadly fangs they whet
The loom of slaver’s guile

The exit of the file
The entrance to regret
Woven round the turnstile
The loom of slaver’s guile

 

Colin Lee

This eight-legged weaver in my picture has been hanging round the turnstile for a couple of weeks now. And when nature’s workings and ours conspicuously rock and roll, a poet shouldn’t be surprised to find himself/herself in the muses’ spidery tangles.