Morning Walk with Rosa


In memory of Jon Stallworthy who nurtured till the end

You have to be there at the moment when

The sun works with the milk-thick fog

And both of them are paper-white light.

Things as they are no longer seem the same,

You stand in the field, inside the foot of a rainbow

Looking at fog lifting through the rising sun.

Millions of glistening droplets float by


Leaving your cheeks wet, hair humid

And your breath snagged on a ‘spider-made-star’

As Rosa whispers, ‘etoile’. So that is what’s under the fog:

Spider-made stars. Perfectly symmetrical webs

Of fine silk-like threads hanging on blackberry bushes,

Late pink baby roses, between leaves of trees,

From stem to stem and every branch. And now

The sun turns slightly golden and I see

Delicate parachutes landed between ravaged

Sunflowers’ stalks, domes of white sky-light

As if the field is lit up by a thousand white lamps.

The spiders have worked with the fog: their nets

Are clad in tiny droplets, minuscule pearls, diamonds,

Disciplined, in perfect rows hanging to the threads

That have followed the shapes of leaves, for now

We are looking at trampolines made of spider webs

Drizzle-plaited, finished off with pyramid-like tops,

And here come the double, triple layered iridescent sheets

Of honey-comb-like structures swaying to our breaths.

Then back to spider-made-stars

That flutter in the air holding their glitter

Up in the open fields, half green, half brown.

I have never seen so many nets carrying water light.

October weaves her tapestry on grasses,

Nets on trees, and we run fingers along translucent

Threads to collect the water on our skin,

Touching the miraculous. So much to see

In the fog, as in the last days’ sadness.

The richness that’s around seems deeper

When you didn’t know to look for it, and saw it there

As fog’s offering–a path full of shimmering stones

To help you find your way when you can’t see ahead:

The spider web that hangs to the mailbox

Drawing your mind away from the letter,

Into its calming inner architecture


That depends on just one kind of warmth

Born of a sudden morning chill that makes the vapour rise

From mounds of leaves, and fog breathes rainbows.

October 14-November 12, Prevessin-Vesgnin-Ornex-Moens

–Carmen Bugan