6 March 2005
The dome of a clear night calls me
To gaze at the heavenly sea.
High above me, way away,
Shining stars forever endure.
Men of the past felt the same lure.
John Jones for sure, felt the sway.
Born poor, a working man by day,
Counting tiles of slate, shipped away
Without delay, from Bangor.
But yet a genius of the night,
Built homemade telescopes to sight
Snow caps of white, on Mars’ core.
Also to view the craters deep
With secrets of the moon to reap,
Ere he could sleep, our John Jones.
As long as there’s a sky to see,
Astronomers will ever be,
And seeking me, the night drones