A spider spins a micro fine thread, her gentle web to weave,
It is with awe, that we behold this art, one can't believe
This work, viewed on a frosty morn, portrays pieces of fragile lace,
How can a tiny creature create these patterns, with silent grace.
She works with great dedication, using skills beyond belief,
Securing her thread to one, and then another sturdy leaf,
Or twig, or gate, or fence, or flower, whatever is to hand,
A magical spun gossamer, her love sealed in every strand.
© Ernestine Northover
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem