By Tick Rowley
Falling through the funnel I found myself
dangling by a thread,
suspended in mid-air,
surrounded by the dark.
In one swift motion
I was lifted up,
my back wet with sweat,
my body splayed
in the bed of a spider’s web.
I could hear the hairs of her legs:
winding, spinning, binding.
I flailed, I wailed,
with no success.
I could not move,
bound by a certainty I could not bear to meet.
Even in the pitch
I could see the endless dark
deep in her many eyes.
She screamed, and so did I.
Her mouth was deep and cavernous,
framed by lethal fangs.
I clenched my eyes shut
and waited.
No pain.
Instead, I was being raised up.
Beneath me the little creature
worked away, giving me silk
whilst I lay, arms open,
rising, heavenwards.
In the slow pull of her string
I could see colour changes;
I could make out the sky.
I turned once more
to see the spider, disappearing.
She hung me up in the stars
for the rising sun to see.
Here I am,
elevated and free.