Nature’s jewellers have been out early,
stringing bright necklaces of morning tears
in the soft, quiet, mist.
New ploughed fields picked over by the glossy pheasant
and his hens, a bridal party of tiny twites in tow.
Cows watch proceedings and chew, ponderously
deliberating on deeper things
that never enter into the minds that race,
the scuttling creatures, who are too busy and blind
to see beauty in the rise and fall.
Chill in the air, smoke on the breeze.
Long shadows lay carpet for the frost
to skip across the hillside, dance beneath the trees.
So delicate a touch, yet deadly –
Not long and those diamond webs will freeze,
and shatter, scatter with the ashes of our broken hearts and dreams.
The weavers never weep. Simply pull the thread again,
start a new stitch and breathe deep.