Even now I cannot help thinking of them
as historical. The noise they make drowns
out the radio static of the street. Grey gowns
of rain ﬂutter or run away in a million gem
spectacular but these dark suns expand
and guard us from the present danger which
is simply a drench of brilliants, rich
as the ﬂood. Look, children, I hold out my hand
beyond its perimeter fence. The ﬁne
spray gathers in my palm then dies away.
I close the black sun and hobble off with it.
It sighs as it closes, approximates to a line
or a stick, like the day before yesterday,
or the meetings of a wartime cabinet.
George Szirtes (born 1948) Hungary
Source: The New Exeter Book of Riddles, edited by Kevin Crossley-Holland and Lawrence Sail, Enitharmon Press (1999)
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