Robyn Curtis

Robyn Curtis is a poet and photographer living in Derbyshire where she frequents the hills and the cafes for places to find poems and pictures.


See me now, a loathsome lob,
mantling the May
shrouding September in lurex knit,
each intricate design
mathematically marked
with my own round cob of a body.
My thread finer than any goddess’ silk,
its ductile strength bears the weight of creation;
my colours, luminous in sun-spectrum,
silvered by moonlight.
What do Athene’s dull-dyed wools have on me now?
I knew the game was up,
put the noose of silk around my own neck;
no one gets to outshine the gods, not even
with such displays of stunning craft.
But a quiver of my spinnerets
and a never-ending trail unreels –
lines for tightrope-walking; I tread out a trapeze web
maybe a funnel to catch a passing mite
or a sheet where a fly lands with heavy foot
and like a bite on an angler’s line
I am jerked awake to wrap it fast.
My web-work decorates the world –
all gods and mortals know its brilliance;
how each filament catches the dew
drop reflecting drop reflecting drop
and the whole world caught in its mirrors;
how my cobweb gauze can heal;
how patiently my many styles of silk
unreel in the night; I have my uses.
No one gets to outshine the gods –
but I have the last laugh
as I fling a line
into the glass air of morning.

Robyn Curtis

Poem published in Dawntreader Issue 40

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