Spider

I bet you've never sat and watched a spider make its web. 

Watched it sweep between two strings of shining white silk, 
Leaving a trail of silver behind it. 
It flies again with confidence and again and again 
Until there is a sparkling star, jewelled with drops of clear liquor. 

Then ever so delicately it runs along the strands of moonlight 
In a seemless spiral connecting the arms of the star 
And changes it into something uneven, imperfect 
But effortlessly beautiful. 

Hours well spent reveal the prize of good works, 
Glimmering by the morning, hung with spheric gems of dew. 
They reflect the rays of the radiant sun, sending spots of colour, 
Dotting their surroundings with rainbow patches. 

The Spider sits in the center, waiting, preparing for the signal 
The vibrations of its work and home; the spider pounces
Sinking its fangs with a crunch before plunging into tender flesh, 
Inserting the bitter poison... 

Then the meal, the delicious liquid 
Sucked from the no longer needed exoskeleton. 
The day continues, the eight legged artisan fixing his work 
Throughout the lazy afternoon 

Day by day, it lives, doing what it must and growing, learning. 
A year quickly passes and the silk threads are worn 
Shading a gloomy grey with age as the hair of a human. 
Time to say good bye, the spider creeps down the tree. 

Between the leaves it crawls, down the trunk. 
Through a jungle of lime-coloured blades 
A spine-chilling screech splits the air. 
Instinct takes over 

The spider rears up to bear its fangs, 
sharp and loaded with vicious vemon. 
But too late, it's ended. 
It's all ended... 

I bet you've never sat and watched a spider make its web.