There have been a few news pieces recently about the world’s largest spider’s webs. There was one back in September, where the web in question – found in Madagascar – seems to be that of an individual spider and is the circular ‘doily’ type.
Then there was the huge sheet-like web found in Texas recently, that is more likely the work of many spiders.
I have no idea how many spiders there are down in my laundry room, but they have been busy, as is clear from the photo (which really doesn’t do justice to the sun sparkling on the dust motes caught in the filigree of the web).
I’ve been busy, too; just not busy with a duster. And, quite frankly, when the result of neglecting the cleaning for a week or so is the delightful sight of a cobweb like this, I don’t feel too bad about it.
Gossamer is on my list of forbidden words, and it appears in far too many of poems. Still, the web reminded me of the lace my mother makes, so it seems as good a time as any to post this – very old – poem:
You sit, bent over the pillow;
click back and forth.
Deftly, you weave silk threads:
over, under, twist and hitch;
under, over, pin and twist.
Beneath your fingers
a brass forest grows
shrouded in gossamer.
(One day, I hope to re-write that and get it to say what I want.)
Now, much as I know I should go and do some cleaning, I’m far more tempted to sit outside in the sunshine and re-read John Wyndham’s Web. After which, I’ll have nightmares until I’ve eradicated every arachnid in the neighbourhood.
Except that I was brought up to believe:
If you want to live and thrive
let the spider run alive
– which is a wonderful excuse for avoiding the housework.