At the imperfect web's functional centre,
bull's-eyed. Examine with impunity,
her netting between us, spied from the ventral.
Push up glasses, squint-peer curiously.
She sees... or feels our warm breath (no breeze), pulls in
the whole web, legs tugging widely appointed strings
so centre's squeezed in cephalothoracic* puppetry,
the in-jerk of white/dark-barred brittles anxiously.
Most sinister to us the lack of separate head,
the way fangs seem a fifth pair of legs spaced evenly.
She clasps to a little black bundle, something dead,
something small she sucked out juices to sustain
her, larger than stuck micro-wings she yet disdains.
We tire of arts, architectures. She waits patiently.
........................
*Spiders have a fused head and thorax (muscle part of body) called a cephalothorax. Don't say you thought Thor had a hammer - Haha!
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Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
