I want to shift my shape and stalk
across a jeweled dew-dropped web
spinning a spiral tunnel as I walk
all corners anchored firm to fight the ebb
and push of errant breeze or stormy blow,
snug against all tricks Fate might deliver.
When it’s finished, I will back on tip-toe
down my chute, stop to sever silken thread,’
patient, curb my hunger, crouching in a
waiting trance, feeling neither hope nor dread.
I rely on heaven-sent sweet manna.
Some hasty, flighty creature on the wing,
too quick to whoop-de-do, dive, zip or zing,
will bumble in my net, then stick there fast
to offer me refreshment and repast.