The poem opens in a graveyard, or somewhere that feels like one: stone angels with "muted icewings" stand over a scene of quiet cruelty. Birds eat birds, and children "laugh children," a strange, broken phrase that turns play into something close to devouring. Innocence and violence sit side by side, and the frozen angels do nothing about it.
Then the picture shifts. Something slender crawls upward on "delicate web buttresses," singing in green twilight. It's unclear what it is, perhaps a plant, a spider, or a spirit, but it is both fragile and persistent, building beauty out of thin threads.
The last lines turn inward. The speaker imagines searching through the ruins of "one's futures" for "lost fates." The mood is eerie, wistful, and bleak, though not hopeless. Loss is everywhere, but something still sings, and someone is still looking.