Anger spun
in spokes so thin,
warning dewdrops
did not glisten.
I’m captured prey,
muted heartbeat.
The gasp of delight,
I might have felt
at colour or birds or day,
is choked in rip-proof silk.
Held as a hunter’s prize
but poisoned,
emptied,
already dried,
I wait for the spider’s surprise
and pity
an eight-legged, rumbling beast
who finds
such a miserable feast.
Robert On The Air 