Posted in poetry

Crucible of Mortality

The spider never sees its web. 
Not really. Not as we see it.
The delicate geometry of it —
The implications. There’s
No real cunning is there? No
Stratagem. Every inch of
Every thread the spider spins
Is coded in, fashioned
Down the palimpsest of
Geologic time, sifted
In the crucible of mortality.

Author:

I’ve retired after a career teaching law. I divide my time now between Athens, Georgia, in the States and the south coast of Ireland.