Spiders On the thread of this attempted prayer a hair braced attentively I lower down, the slightest give a catch only the heart can feel, and think of spiders, their secret spinnerets, how these September days when opening the greenhouse door I’ve walked face first into a web no one could know was there except the crumpled maker. I’ve spun nothing and hang in nothing, my thread invisible unless glossed by light, lowering down into air, or what is not air but the belief of it.
Kathryn Simmonds has published two collections of poems. She lives with her family in Norwich.
Amethyst Review 