Cobweb
Dust circles, heavy,
In the light from the dirty,
Unshuttered window pane
The web hangs, fragile,
Glistening in the dingy, stale air,
That smells of hazy memories
Its whiteness, so fine, so fine,
Ever swaying in the draft,
From the always closed door
To reach up and break it,
Comes into my mind
To sweep away the dust
The dust of people
Whose names I do not know,
Who are only whispers in the eves
But I stop, sometimes
It is the strangers,
Who love us most
Let me know what you think of the last verse – and the whole poem. I’m not sure about it so would appreciate some feedback. Thanks
Lucy Webster 
Wonderful.
I like the regular stanzas and philosophical ideas.
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