I cling to corners, dark and high, A fragile trap where shadows lie. I spin a home, but build no door, And catch what flies, but walks no more. A touch will break my dusty thread, Left behind when the hunter's fled.

Thick and loose of hide I am, and thick and coarse of fur Strong of jaw and claw, I am a critter's predator No games, just setts, and more than match for any who disturb

I have three hearts but cannot love. I bleed blue blood, not red. I have eight arms to hold you close, and a beak upon my head. What am I?

When autumn leaves carpet the ground, I gather their colours all around. I pull them together, pile by pile, and leave the lawn looking clean for a while

This four letter word for a thick mist, often chemical and usually considered toxic or harmful at least, is a portmanteau of smoke and fog