At night cobwebs sweep at corners
of this broom, seeking old silk caught
in thistle, fragments of dead years.
Desolate threads linger most.
Each longs for ancient web- knowing,
when a line breaks the whole will fall,
or has already fallen,
for collapse is universal. The first
fracture bears no relevance, beyond
the shared conclusion:
a quiet purpose is woven best
from centre. All else is tangled need.
Left hungry too long, the spiders
under breast, toil at weaving old to new,
recasting patches of hollowed net
while the middle ground stays empty.
Unthreaded, spent ends cling to grey.
Honorable winner
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