In a sunny meadow where one could wander,
On a poppy rare sat Silvan the spider.
He was brown with black spots across his face,
And a little white splotch on his back like a vase.
He would often sit and ponder on that poppy,
How fast could he run to the belfry?
So, with beady eyes and steady feet,
He jumped off his flower and ran with a heat!
Through the grass and flowers tall,
He would not heed his friend’s call.
For with spring comes warmth and life within,
So why should he not gain his own win?
Off like a brown bolt he flew through the blades,
Until he came upon an object that made him afraid.
Its sickening, sharp gleam forced him to stop,
Slowly he crept around to hide under a snowdrop.
The silver blade was stuck in ground like a warning,
However, Silvan remembered that there was hope in spring.