Unravelling the Mystery of The Spiderweb.

This is a poem I recently wrote for a blank verse contest. It won first prize. Whoopee! I hope you like it.

The Spiderweb

The night is still, and long the silent hours

when whispers reign and senses strain, alert.

A spider comes, and from her inner self,

she draws a viscous silk with spinnerets,

concentric strands of lace in spiral sweeps,

and in the graveyard hours she decks each strand

with orbs of dew she spirits from the mist,

a neckline drapery, a string of gems

that's fit to clothe the rosy breast of dawn—

but what of attercop, who fashioned it?

She lies in wait, emotionless, attuned

to feel vibrations signalling her prey.

The sun dries out the web. It is concealed

in phantom shades of grey. Invisible

to those who dance along in carefree flight.

Her trap is sprung; their struggles are in vain.

Her larder full, she sucks and masticates,

and when her feasting's done and she's replete,

she spins in dreams another skein of silk

to trap the blind with beauty's darker face.

(Blank verse, a poetic form much used by Shakespeare and Milton, uses unrhymed iambic pentameter, mimicking the natural rhythms of speech.)

A dew-covered spiderweb in the morning light.