Cobwebs

Low-slung nets made visible by dew Appear suddenly one morning. Trampolines of soft breath And parachute precision. Ghostly nets lassoed Between teasels, while the see-saw Song of the Chaffinch, slides Along the rigging. Hammock-heaven. Twigs become cats-cradles, and every bush, Every stalk is wired up For spiders to go-ape.