Siobhan Ford is in the final year of her combined honours degree in English with Counselling Skills.

Little lady


when the home

you’d stretched

across the magnitude

            of cold translucent


            filled with dew


were you shaking, startled

            at the silken ice rise

twisting over your family of


infants, as snowflakes?

            Eight-hundred legs.

Eight-hundred eyes.

            You waited for winter


still as bone.

            Wrapped another hundred

onto damp glass with thread wire.

            In the night silence

ambitious survival plans:

            suck the juice from a cocoon.

Un-stretch, curl legs

            from tight-ropes, under ledge.