A tame one, then; although Porphyria had to wonder what Bertram made of humans, living in such close proximity to them and yet a different species. But then even Mr. Podmore saw the difficulties of trusting humans, and he was one; so maybe that was not the first question she ought to ask.

At any rate, Bertram had a question for her – and she was a little too awed by stepping into the enclosure and being nearer to him to much protest to it. She felt dwarfed by the spider from here; his legs alone were taller than her, and much less spindly than the usual spiders one encountered. And Mr. Podmore had just said he was accustomed to being around humans – but Phyri could see his large pincers just before her, and thought they could cause some damage, if the creature so wished.

“I did not, but I can recite some, if you’d like?” Phyri promised, sifting through her works to choose something she thought Bertram would best appreciate. She selected a mossy tree stump to sit on, and offered up a few verses of a poem to him, gazing up at those eight unblinking eyes. It was not her very darkest poem (she was a little conscious of the zoo owner in earshot) but one written after her time as a wren, something that had been borne out of Irish myths, and talked of time and nature and decay and carrion flesh – and had some tree imagery she was particularly proud of, and hoped Bertram might appreciate.

“I can bring more another day, if you didn’t despise it,” she added lightly, at the end. She had some earlier long-form poems that went further into gory gothic tragedy.

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