Tight arms on a tight web,
Thick-gobbed strands hawser-like
Stretched between mountains of dark and light,
A lifetime spent in waiting -
All for the tremor of some screamed thing
That flutters out its life as a warning.
Legs flex, attention rivets a nail to the heart of the coffin,
Dark, dark are the thoughts
And the certainty of death coming.
The machine is running!
Jaws clamp on what life is left,
Swift bungee-jump through space back to the centre of the web,
And a black mess of compressed bodies turned in a bundle by vast front legs.
Gagged voices would tell of death.
Imagining being a spider’s prey.