A speck too small to catch the eye draws out a line across
the sky;
A flash of silver now and then is all we see of passing men;
Men whose passage leaves behind a message written on the wind.
But ere the plane can cross the sky the trail begins to spread
and die.
The monuments of which we're proud are fragile as this web of
cloud;
Our lives are just a passing by, a vapour trail across the sky.
Betty's beautiful picture was specially taken
to illustrate Peter's poem.
