Maire Fisher

It’s the end of the summer weekend at the shark lookout point on Boyes Drive and the spider is snoring hysterically. ‘Sleep, sleep, sleep,’ she mutters and jerks, ‘weave … tangled web … dream … perchance to …’ She twists and turns and moans and cries out, ‘Penelope, Penelope!  weave … words, web of words, web mistress, me …’ Strands, silver and strong, stream behind her as she swings, leaving hexagons and diamonds of moonweb in her wake. Back and forth she scuttles and shuttles. Down in the bay all is still. Clouds mass on the horizon and under the quiet waters dark shapes glide.

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