In The Wheatfield

The golden glow of just ripe wheat was background, music with a beat from garlands gleaned and sun for warmth they lay there, silent tangled arms, and hands small weevils, other bugs and spiders, crawled slowly, leisurely on nude and scarcely breathing, wildly spent, soft limbs. Though the idyll came to a rather tragic, early end when tractor sounds approached at speed and mammoth tyres flattened him, the one who, for a spider, was the most enamoured with the show he'd watched from the beginning.