Stepping into the gateless garden you see
a frail hammock slung between the old
rose bush and the lavender you like
to pinch for its scent though its flowers are bleached.
At once the trees in the park vanish, their songs
of praise in crimson, puce and apricot –
you trace the spider to the net’s centre. Gold
and silver needles shed by the sun are caught
in its radial and circular threads.
The house is tugging but you’re spellbound
by a trap for lesser insects that a dog’s snout,
a child’s finger could easily destroy.
It’s poignant as the mystic moon, the square root
of minus one you once grasped, dumbfounded.
© Myra Schneider
View guest contributor Myra Schneider’s bio HERE