Held aloft in the prism prison
they paused in the moment of skiers on snow brink
then triggered by some signal in silence given
but echoing inside the glass amphitheatre drinking
sky, they circled the track, black widow dancing
a cyclic tarrantella.
Like fairground riders on the wooden wall
of death they spun round the glass circumference
until the large spider caught the small
and consumed it. Nature's indifference
navigating all our works.
In times of migration
when my sense of gravity fails,
and what was ahead is behind,
I think of my father's hands,
Holding up to indifferent light
two spiders running round a glass.