How many minutes, how many hours do you take to weave
Your sticky threads, a ladder stretched; you leave
A ready trap to capture passing prey.
I wonder if there is a ‘best time of the day’
When you are sure of something to fulfil
Your appetite; you’re ready for the kill.
But when I come across your lair where you lie in wait
To see what flies into your snare to meet their fate,
I cannot help but marvel at your skill
Of making such an art in what you kill.
For art it is, no matter what you say,
Especially when I see it early in the day.
For in the misty dew of early morn,
Not long after birdsong heralds dawn,
When my house is steadfast in their sleep
And I, down stairs, in stealth do silent creep.
And quietly step outside and gaze,
The sun is sharp and fresh, the mist a haze.
And there I see the strands and strings that shine,
Each silken thread so delicate and fine
Is laced with dew-drop jewels that glint and gleam;
Intricate patterns, the radius to the seam.
The sunshine bright and newly lit
Now highlights every link you made to fit.
How many minutes, how many hours do you take to weave?
I wonder, as the fly is trapped; I leave.