Orbs

Orbs

 

To spin with gossamer or with light

Is a cold weaving at dewfall, when

The spinneret drips with imprisoned

Spheres of condensation, even as

The silk is being combed outwards,

And the bright spectrum is blurred

By a concatenation of mists. Ghosts

Are unnecessary: the whole place

Is a haze of emanations, and the web

Weighs heavy half-extruded, encumbered

By globes of water, strung with flares,

The light wearing moisture like a cowl,

Bowing its lucent head in nimbus-

Gilded prayer. The threads of light

Spire inwards, as the spider whorls

Towards the centre, as though seeking

Some seared nadir of homespun, and love

Blazes forth in the gleaming orb of water.

 

Poem by Giles Watson, 2012.

Done