The first beams of sunshine, its golden warming rays
Illuminate the dewdrops lingering on gossamer strings.
Like golden Christmas lights, strand upon strand,
Swaying effortlessly to the rhythm of the breeze.

Its pattern complex, like pottery that’s crazed,
Nestled beneath the bench to which it clings.
Delicate white strings seem to recede and expand,
Spun silver, tightropes for fairies.

Time slips by; the web’s fragile threads loosen,
One by one, they lose their grip, dangling passively.
Loose threads hanging limply, quivering, shaking.
Once-sparkling strands fade to grey.

Night is falling, the beauties of morning long forgotten,
Last remnants of a once-radiant web dangle listlessly.
Exposed, desolate, abandoned. The sky is crying,
The rain washes Arachne’s loom away.