Reading under the elm

A black dot floats into my line of sight.
Sunlight slips along its silk as it
drops onto the cuff of my sleeve
swings to the edge of the page
lands on the back of my hand.

I try to coax it onto a stem
but it’s intent on weaving me
into the landscape.
Just a handy leaf and limb
to hang its airy net on.

Then I reach for the urgent phone
disrupt the slender threads
of this small story too big
for me to read

Annette Mullumby (Western Australia)

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