Orb Weaver

I miss the balcony weaver.She provided alternating waves,Of adrenalin and wonder,Her delicate work,Collecting tiny beads,Of diffracting dew. The winter descended during that summer,Scraping off your skin,And every thought was sticky and wide-eyed. Let us be quite clear;No-one can survive themselves.You … Continue reading



Words that should warm, only make us brittle now.
In the dunes, fractured, you will find us.
Sipping tea until it drips through the cracks,
and probably beyond.

You said it was beauty, the bleaching of bones.
In the ocean, promised of inner landslides,
But poised are we until we’re lacquered and fired,
and made ceramic.

(c) Accidental Tentacles 2016