Old Maid

Glissandra spins gossamer nets Of sticky white webbing that gets Her all the captive she needs: Her spider-string oozes like sap, The unicorns step in her trap— Soon they will serve as her steeds. Glissandra rides out from her lair, The wind singing tunes in her hair, Unicorn under her thighs; With spider-web stirrups and reins, Glissandra rides hillside and plains Under the thunder-split skies. She gallops the high road to town, But gates in the walls clatter down, Sentries with crossbows appear— “Turn back, pretty rider, turn back” The sentinel cries through the black: Darts whistle close to her ear. Glissandra returns to her nest, Resuming what she knows the best, Weaving her webs—her life’s chore! But sometimes she pines for the life Of being some villager’s wife— No one wants her—as before!