Cobwebbery
Simon
MacCulloch
Where have the spider-gods gone,
They who used stars in their weaving?
Galaxies founded upon
Patterns beyond all retrieving,
Complex beyond all believing.
Rocket your telescope eye,
Endlessly searching and sifting;
Maybe they’ve captured a fly,
Snared in their infinite shifting
Out where the cobwebs go drifting.
Only the darkness could say
Where these sad remnants are going,
Bound as they are to obey
Naught save the force of their flowing,
Nothingness all of their knowing.
What does a spider intend
Other than waiting and preying?
That’s what it is in the end:
Birthing and building and slaying,
Glorious in their decaying.
