Hanging by a Thread

The weaver was long gone but the web remained.

Silent. Soft. Sticky, still.

The unsuspecting beetle walked right into it.

Tangled and stuck and no way loose.

Just one hind leg, kicking feebly.

Life holds unintended traps: Watch where you go.

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Welcome to My Parlour

Poet Mary Howit knew a thing or three about spiders. She would have seen this dew-laden silk and dark doorway for the trap it is.

In 1829 she penned lines that became one of the most quoted warnings about false flattery:

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly, 
‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy; 

We all know what happened to the fly.

Whose parlour are you sitting in?