In The Wheatfield Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

The golden glow
of just ripe wheat
was background,
music with a beat
from garlands gleaned
and sun for warmth
they lay there, silent
tangled arms, and hands
small weevils, other bugs
and spiders, crawled
slowly, leisurely on nude
and scarcely breathing,
wildly spent, soft limbs.

Though the idyll came to
a rather tragic, early end
when tractor sounds
approached at speed
and mammoth tyres
flattened him, the one
who, for a spider, was
the most enamoured
with the show he'd watched
from the beginning.