The air is full of silk today. As I run the footpath
along the edge of the salad fields towards the woods
I have to brush the finest of airborne cobwebs
from my face, again and again, nothing to see
in my gloves, only what I can feel across
my cheeks and lips, almost, but not quite, nothing.
Is there a name for the arena that exists between
the visible and the invisible, between the detectable
and the undetectable? A place where boundaries
have been polished into insignificance?
Is that the place where poetry finds us?
Or if not poetry whatever you would like to call it –
a place of wonder or stillness at your centre,
connection, quiet epiphany?
I imagine the spiderlings climbing grass stalks, fence posts,
pointing their abdomens into the air and releasing
their silk and when the thread is long enough
how the wind catches it and the spiderlings
lift into the air like kites on a string of silk.
Some days I am running through the marvellous.
Photo courtsesy of Royal Society of Biology