A whispering sounds on the wall,

Is heard for certain in the garden.

Spiders are unsurprised,

It seems, by human absence

Of our vacant rooms.

And in the shadows

Intricate weavings

Are commonplace.

The street patterns light

On fading interiors.

Then there is the moon

When night has lost all reason

For seclusion in obscura.

What guides the spider is confusion.

And when change torments

The thread remain sthe same.