How vainly men
Here in the garden, hiding from the future, Between the cranesbill and the clematis, The peonies shedding petals everyday, The sun my only guest, the pyrocanthus Putting forth hundreds of tiny golf balls, Plenty of things are going on; but no-one Is buying toothpaste, or getting divorced, Or catching a bus that knows where it's going.
Various questions are not being asked - for instance How is my bank account, or my daughter's marriage? Will my lecture be well received, will the students listen?
Am I taking early retirement, or being promoted? What did Tom say to Dick about Harry - or was it me?
The golf balls have burst into cloudscapes Of whipped cream; and the peonies Died into pools of blood. It's a kind of future.
Last week somebody won an election, Someone else shot a man. Here in the garden The foxgloves are climbing their stalks; each morning They've got a bit further.
Laurence Lerner
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