A spider was before me in the bath
On a cold, dark night. And I in dressing-gown and slippers.

He sat there on the cold, slippery whiteness of the enamel;
hunched, black on white, negative on positive,
and I must stand there and gaze at him - and he at me.

The voice of my aversion told me I should kill him.
Then I could have my bath in peace.
But in Britain, the spider is harmless - except to flies.

He lazily extended a multi-jointed leg.
I watched, fascinated, repelled.
His black, two-sectored body squatting.
Balefully regarding me with his eight fathomless eyes
from the bottom of the bath.

He twitched another leg. He may have sensed me.
What did he see, that alien being?
My world, so huge
that he could perceive only a minute fraction of it.
We observe the universe
like spiders from the bottom of a bath -
and see as much.

Could I bring myself to trap him?
Fling him out of the window in a plastic mug
into the damp, dark night?
I stood there, freezing, indecisive.

Suddenly, he scuttled, angularly, round the bath
like a child's wind-up toy that needs attention.
I lost my neerve then and turned on the water,
flushing him down the plughole - helpless.
Then I hated myself for it.

What harm had he done to me,
except to rouse my primeval fears?
He was more a prisoner than I
because he was physically trapped,
while I was locked into my mental loathing and repulsion.
Yet that is the way we treat each other.
Someone is different from us - we are afraid.
So we flush them away.