Spun skillfully a milky way the net cast over the waters 

 

one last sporting throw for all the world in slow motion

 

for the feast or famine guiding hand or chaos

 

it would seem a good idea further back-pedalling

 

read a hundred fictions delivered slowly

 

time suspended high in a cosy bubble 

 

the net thrown finds its crux in a job well done

 

as spider silk blowing across the morning