A silent, speeding, shooting star
Flashed ‘cross the night sky’s dark;
Then gone, except it etched within
My memory a mark.
That’s all that’s left of that brief burst,
The life that was a light,
That dazzled as it dashed across
The ebony of night.
When my swift flight is o’er and there’s
No longer light nor place,
My soothing thought as shooting star:
I left somewhere a trace.
© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.