During the quietness of the starry night,
The mottled spider spins her silken net, her intricate polygonal web…
To catch and ensnare those little insects
In flight, who dare to wing the skies, small metallic flies,
As the Sun rises in the east,
In the hour of her important, lonely feast.
And still we look on in awe,
In amazement at the engineering of it all,
The beauty, art, planning, premeditation, cruelty, horror,
As the struggling victim is rushed at, trussed up,
Injected with deadly venom and sucked dry alive.
It does not very long survive.
Even so, the scene does not long deflect us from our cornflakes,
And milk, toast and marmalade…
And the other joys of breakfast…since we are aware
Of that same primitive struggle, that ancient drama that maintains us in the land of the living, temporarily at least,
Against all the odds. We too are made to fight…and for war.