Contrail is a nice word. It describes the vapour trail that a jet leaves behind in the sky. In many parts of England you see contrails all the time. Usually they are created by military aircraft but of course there are many hundreds of private jets these days and in this area, high above, we see air traffic moving to or from our northern airports.
Last evening I was up on Stanage Edge again, hoping for a spectacular sunset that never came. Summer is definitely receding as the length of night-time in this hemisphere increases and the sun sets marginally earlier each day. Up in the sky, old contrails were fading away as sharp new ones were being described like chalk lines slashed across a celestial blackboard.
Poetically speaking, you might say that human beings leave contrails too as we travel through life but as time passes by the trails of our passing presence tend to blur and fade away. However, some contrails stick around for ages, still sharp - William Shakespeare, Abraham Lincoln, Muhammad, Henry Ford... and who knows, perhaps little Aylan Kurdi's line across our troubled heavens will stay bright and clear for a long time yet.