Cobwebs in October
Low-slung nets made visible by dew
Appear suddenly one morning.
Trampolines of soft breath
And droplet-beaded precision.
The seesaw song of the chaffinch
Bounces off allium globes. Ghostly lines
Lassoed over St Johns Wort,
And spiders go-ape
Between herbaceous, hammock-weaved heaven.
Cat’s-cradles: the fingers of branches,
And every bush, every stalk is wired up
As pyracantha flames orange,
Wrapped up like a Christmas shroud.