Outside branches clawed the slate,
Dragging frosty talon nails,
Whilst high above the moon there sails
A silver jet on vapour trails;
Unknown, sat in her steely hull they wait,
Whoever they may be, they are,
The time-zone throng who travel far,
The riders of the shooting star.
Erased to faceless, sketchy visions,
Sped across the sky,
As grounded, rooted – wonder, watch,
The last year passing by.