A Cobweb

Concentric circles of delicate lace, rippling in the breeze. A fascinating thread, woven round and round and then sprinkled with a myriad of minute water droplets. Spreading wide on fine threads like cables, suspended from the washing line and the overhang of the gutter, reaching down with elastic strands to the sloping roof two metres below. Light as gossamer, gracefully billowing in gentle air currents, like the sail of an old-world galleon. Stretched out and ready, a beautiful silent menace; a trap, ethereal, yet deadly. Motionless in the heart of this web the spider patiently sits, poised to scuttle across the waiting mesh at the slightest tremor that betrays his prey. He has laid his plans, created his trap, and now awaits his dinner.
Cobweb, but no spiderWhen I return later, wondering if the spider has reaped the reward of his labours; I see that cruel fingers of wind have taken the delicate fibres, and torn them to tatters. And so the spider must begin again.
Then I get to thinking, as I often do:
I think of the things I am planning, and question whether I am really prepared to work hard enough to see them fulfilled.
I ponder on what it is I am waiting for, and consider how I am waiting, and whether I am waiting patiently.
And I question whether I am willing to keep going whatever the cost, and if I can persevere until I reach the end.

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