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 a coffin,
Dark, dark are the thoughts
And the certainty of death coming.
Speed!
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.
Short poem about a spider hunting.
