Spider, Spider hanging right
in the centre of the night,
what empty hand and empty brain
keeps your web whole in the rain?

Who spun your web you spin all day
to catch the world that flies away
on wings that never want to land?
Who spun your web by loom and hand?

Who cupped your silk, made your spinner,
urged the threads now thinner, thinner?
Who made your patterns, web-like, growing
spiral-wise with genius showing?

You did, Spider, no-one else
formed your spider-silken pulse.
You grew yourself out from the silk
passed down the years like mother’s milk.

You planned designs, perfected them
as faultless as a faultless gem –
hanging dewdrops in the sunrise
dazzle all onlookers’ eyes.

Spider, Spider hanging right
in the centre of the night,
no empty hand and empty brain
keeps your web whole in the rain!

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