The Orb- and the Elfin-Weaver

or The Elfin World of Spiderwebs in the Moss

Spiderwebs sparkle when it rains
And looking down at the moss by her drains
The old golden spinster - the ordinary over-achiever
Sees a-sparkling, the work of the little elfin weaver

It is neslted in the emerald moss
Dainty with its dewy gloss
It is a shining silver home
It is not gold, like the orb-weaver's own

But though silver is cold
Like days of rain of old
And orb-weavers hate such freezing things
They love the nostalgia that silver brings

For orb-weavers hold many memories in mind
Because they wait patiently on webs, crookedly lined
Remembering the memories, on most days
And they remember well how the elfin-weaver plays

Elfin-weavers play elfin tunes
Under the infinite shapes of their milky moons
On silver tin-whistles and fiddly-fiddles
And also, and often, tell spiky green riddles

'Why does moss grow on the dead?'
An elfin-weaver is rumoured to have said.
'The dead should have no life left with which to split;
And with old wet webs, a weaver shall struggle to knit ...'

This riddle was asked of a weaver-hero from a fable
On a quest, down in the moss, when all his cards were on the table
But the gold orb-weaver finds herself confused
For she cannot recall the answer that the weaver-hero used

Faced with this blockage in her recollection
The old spinster needs for her mind a re-direction
Bemused, she sets about a-webbing
Repairing and expanding on her dewy golden bedding

When, at last, she has finished her spinning
And looks back down through the twilight thinning
She sees the edge of her golden web
And the silver elfin sparkle that now begins to ebb

And though she cannot recall the answer in full
She believes she has remembered just a little of it all
For the answer is like the silver that is not gold
But is like gold, for the memories it holds of old

For a thing dead is not a thing lifeless
Just like elfin silver is not a thing timeless
It comes and goes with the rain, and the dew that it leaves
And it glows by its contrast with the green near its eaves

The dead gives life to moss like a remedy
Like remembering gives life to memory
Like past rain gives sparkle to webs of silver
And the elfin gives gold to the ordinary orb-weaver