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Poem

Born in a nebulae, a spiders web of gas,
coloured by temperature, weighted by mass.
Nuclear fusion keeps them shining bright 
just like on that first day when God created night.
So they don’t burn us He cast them way up high
to illuminate our world He lit up the sky.
The coldest stars are red, the hottest are blue 
our star is orange to sustain me and you.

A gazillion balls of light, Arcadian fire,
or could they be the angels of Gods holy choir?
Fifteen million degrees keeps them alight
no wonder the poor shepherds fell down in fright, 
their signs in the heavens are celestially awed
witness to life through a child still adored.
Astrologers use them to predict our days
while Astronomers study their galactic ways.

A billion years trip past, the mere blink of an eye,
their cores rapidly depleting our stars start to die.
Expanding shells that twist and morph
snuff out the light as they turn black dwarf,
as a swan song gesture, it’s almost over;
in a brilliant flash they turn supernova,
a nebulous cloud of gas is then formed;
the birthing place where stars are spawned.

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