Spinner Poem by M S Latter

Dredger of air, reaper of rich sky worlds
awaiting the glinting emeralds and
sapphires of the Sun's golden highways.

With body disproportions that mask dexterity and poise
the silent weaver tight-ropes the silken sky
to set a highway trap.

Globules sparkle and gleam on elastic steel;
now and then a ripple trigger -
the weaver testing her thread-work
in the slipstreams.

Black convex saucers of eyes
absorb and reflect the bristling
ordered tangled world,
while cocoons in the larder
dissolve in venom.

Programmed machine-like efficiency,
merely instinctive and reacting to stimuli,
yet reflecting a higher purpose
as you deftly spin preciseness,
deposit stickiness where you will not pass,
then indefatigably remain poised in ugliness
as a glorious killing machine.

Weaver of death, so rarely seen
by quarry until entangled. Behind your web -
invisible - is the weaver of life - molecules woven
into cell complexity into creative wonder.

My eye reflected
in those black shiny saucers -
the lens brings my world
into the hell of yours.