They dibble the turf
with fork and trowel
eagerly, eagerly
going to it,
each whiskery bulb
unclutched and buried
as we their assistants
kneel beside them.
Ours is the knowledge,
the choice of season,
the nurturing landfill,
the bedding down,
but theirs the trust
in a world new-minted,
like prospectors
for the future’s gold.
Disagree with half of it, enjoy reading all of it
TRY 3 MONTHS FOR $5
Our magazine articles are for subscribers only. Start your 3-month trial today for just $5 and subscribe to more than one view
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in