At my parents’

you don’t even get in the gate

(because there isn’t one)

before they swoop,

more Bat than Spider,

coming down as they do

from out of nowhere,

a shocked-skin-wisp at head height,

the gap in the conifers

booby trapped with trip wires

so provisional & finite

in the motion sensor

you should be ashamed of yourself,

the fuss you make

about the thoughts you have –

as if there’s ever hatched

a legion from an ear!

And by you

I mean I.