Twas two weeks ago, the house had
been dusted from morning till night,
the cobwebs are back, their maker’s
wobbly legs scurrying out of sight.
If left unattended, like flimsy weeds
grey and unbroken, cobwebs sprout,
trailing down the wall and ceiling,
round the curtains, a spidery routh.
Gleaming in the sun, a magical riot
in the attic though a gloomy spectre,
relatives who come to stay, shriek
"Dracula’s abode is a better idea."
The vacuum makes a sweep up and down,
soon the glassy cobwebs are gone,
spidery legs mysteriously follow, one
hardly hears the creatures' sound.
Two weeks more to go before the battle
between man and arachnid begins,
but there's less hassle and bother now
with the invention of modern machines.
7 Jan 2008