Sailing For Whitby

My head is full of cobwebs and at first I am not
sure if my thoughts are flies tangled up in threads or
spiders poised to pounce and wind them round with shrouds.
I decide that silk cannot hold my imagination still.
Like Dracula, I lead the way up castle steps – bare stone
without a banister – and disappear down a shadowed
corridor, all without disturbing dust or breaking webs
as thick and white as net curtains. I fill a wooden box
with dirt and fill your head with thoughts of flies in turn:
A larder in your skull for the spiders behind my eyes.
Spinning, weaving us together as we sail for
Whitby’s jet strewn bay, to play out an ancient
melodrama of arachnid predators and prey.