The summer morning twinkles through the leafs
Of the sycamore tree in the window,
And the warm breeze shakes the brunches
To the sound of the gushing river.

A little spider makes his way
To his net, spins the last cobweb
And sits quietly, anxious to put his hands
On the next innocent little fly
That falls into his trap.

The tea is getting cold.
She sips it swiftly.
She bites her half buttered toast
And sigh, and then she takes a look
At the empty bed, smile,
And sets off to work.

What a lovely summer morning.