Spiderson

Squirrel huffles along an oak branch, kicking a splat of water from leaves; as though he’d emptied his chamberpot down on the heads of the lane interlopers. Grumpy morning squirrels are not good shots, luckily. Above us also are spider zip wires, weighed down by mist. Later when the sun shines they might be diamond bunting… hmm, which is better: spiders on zip lines shouting ‘woooo yeah’ or the exuberant decadence of diamondiferous garlanding?

Web lines in the back garden assist the tether of the tarpaulin, which is Mr’s poor substitute for a shed. Today he finishes making a picnic bench from pallets and wood scraps. The spiders are no help with the carpentry but will set up a fly patrol around the table. Perhaps they will join our picnics; bring a plate of fly wraps; a jug of moth smoothie.

(I’m alive to spiders in particular today. Thinking of our godson, who is four years old exactly and an apprentice Spiderman. Spiderman in Wellington boots, blowing out his birthday candles- four years since the gut-squeezing tribulation of waiting; days of waiting; since the dam busting relief of hearing ‘Mother and son both well.’ Today, as well as cake, there has been finger painting. Spiderman in Wellington boots, daubing paint. The trauma was worth the counterpoint.)

Later the stars come out, a dazzling scope of stars against that velvet universe.