How vainly men

From The Spectator, 29 August 1992.

How vainly men
by Laurence Lerner

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.