Given time the garden becomes truthful, a green
wildness with no lawn or flower-beds.
It's grown the way it wanted and wild
creatures gather, a gash of parrots
and the secret goannas, even, briefly years past,
migrating mallards riffling the pond.
The spiders and us, though, we've taken
longer to live together. Strolling after dark,
who wants some sticky mesh in the eyes, a lethal
scutter over your throat? Scared neighbours,
we've learned to keep out of each other's lives,
so they loop branches and high guttering
to a glitter of tension, unwreckable
from the garden path. When you look up now
they hang like sharp angels in mid-air,
garden sprites, or they could be ancestors
who at evening crackle awake
at a thrash of snared morsels,
in a starlight dance their sacred venom.