A NEW PARLOUR MADE.

Where her hands once hung
Now were spiders
That made people run
To their hideouts,
And remain with their guns
And their eyes out
For movement once morning
Had dried out.

And whilst the number of weaves
Was unclear
Some did not wish to see
What appeared,
So they left with the breeze,
And their fear,
Leaving everything free
To adhere.

And the space left behind
Became vacant,
And those not entwined
Were impatient
To leave too, and assign
A replacement,
But nothing would climb
From its basement.

So she was alone
In the open,
And she hurried along
With abandon;
Spreading thread around
Over again
Until all above ground
Was re-woven.