1683: The Maunder Minimum

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Steven Gobat

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I went for a walk one bloody summer's day
And saw the mystical lunges of the pale yew tree
I even lay beside its waking mystery
I wrote our names upon a tree
As though they would be there forever
And on top of one of London's named hills
I paint my eye with the sun's strange fire
And thus, I do deprive that other spire
Of its place in time
And in all this Greek revelry
The brief shadow of a kiss
We borrow from there its permanence
And, in its turn, we lend the sun our doomed purpose
The Globe, you see, it is promised to catch in flames
Our bodies they move toward a fallen stage
Now every day is a black mass of time
But at least, for a moment, you were mine
Every day is a black mass of time
But at least, for a moment, you were mine

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