Poem: Strands of wisdom

I stopped, and stooped, and closely looked.
‘Can you tell me?’
I asked her quietly.
She gently swayed, thoughts with the breeze,
With folded legs, in piety.

‘I am not sure I have the words,’
She confessed,
and bowed her head,
‘But you are looking at my answer,
If you follow every thread.’

‘We are more than just connected,
Not just patterns,
Turned and spun.
An ephemeral, terrible beauty,
We are all, just simply, one.’

I carefully traced the silver strands,
Conducting a concerto of birdsong,
with my finger.
There were no parts, just one symphony,
And I watched the dewdrops linger.

‘This web holds all my wisdom,
What I know of here,
and wider.’
I had found this morning’s revelation,
Just listening to a spider.

We come across a lot of beautiful webs early in the morning, glistening in dew. The best of each day, I think is to be found at the bookends. The early morning, when the dew is fresh, before civilisation has woken up, and then the early evening, when the weary have made it home and turned inwards, away from society’s grind, to their homes.