Contrails

Each morn in the dawn I wake up to see
Fluffy straight lines in the sky
Some running parallel and others across
But the question I’m asking is why

So I knelt down by my bedside to pray
“I’m asking you mate
Why make some clouds straight
Is this some sort of game that you play?”

Then later that day I looked up that way
And there were crosses and noughts by the score
Right overhead someone’s joined in the game
On the board that was drawn there before

I wonder if they are positioned to play
On the board that was drawn there much earlier
It’s hard now to say for the board’s blown away
And the clouds are getting much curlier

I think God prefers board games to sport
Who in heaven likes to disport
But who wins the game I can never explain
For who uses the cross or the nought?