Spun.

Twisting and turning, weaving and looping, over and over again, the thread winds and binds itself together, securing passage, places to capture and sending signals far beyond the centre. Each radiating line sends ripples outwards and inwards. A prang here. A twang there. Waves of delight or despair depending on your view. As wings flutter, powerless to escape, out I step, ready to drink the juices of life. The sun beats above, or it doesn’t, I’m ever present. Ever ready. Ready to feast. All on the web of life, that I spun.

2 thoughts on “Spun.

  1. Mum January 12, 2021 / 6:08 pm

    That’s lovely!! Can I copy it to put in Parkfield Court’s newsletter?

    Like

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