Unlike Robert the Bruce,

I feel no sense of accomplishment when watching the industry

of the spider as it spins its fine silken dance at the bottom

edge of my library window.

I sit there watching it recreate the try

and try again routine in the vain hope of catching the elusive

as each morning I brush away the web

but never seeing the many fold truth of its endeavours.

 

I am not inspired by its work,

quite the opposite, for I feel it puts me to shame

as I contemplate the words upon words upon layered

words that I wish to put down and perhaps leave

a fragment of myself upon the wet sand of the day

and even when I succeed, my tiny friend in the corner

of the window, the summer sun reflecting off its back,

somehow creates something more beautiful.

 

Out of the corner of my eye,

I realise nothing I can ever place on the white electronic space

will be as authentic

and timeless as the creativity employed by my eight legged friend

and whilst I destroy his home every morning,

I see from his point of view that I am just nothing,

the merest cold wind that is overcome

by talent and hunger.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015