Was it a line about strange saturn’s rings
so thin that they must cling and zing
in our transient earthling imaginings?
Or a strolling trundling thought
on how our sun caught the last of day’s
smiling beam and held it tight and taut?
Somewhere I lost a stray line near the fen
with no pen to write it down. I was watching wrens
when something odd and bountiful appeared again.
Copyrighted by the author