It seems to render all irrelevant:
the selfishness of each of us,
the tiny hopes and dreams we held,
as if a shroud, invisible, had dropped upon us all,
a leveller if ever there was levelling,
our lives on hold, the future now postponed.
Or is it only in my head? For when I step outside
the cordoned zone that is our home,
the world looks pretty much the same.
There are no bodies in the lane,
the strapping dads are pushing strollers in the park,
the planes are roaring overhead.
But sure as hell, my missus and her mate
will not be seeing Rome in May.
We may be dead by June.
More likely we will wonder at contagion,
at this tabloid Armageddon
and the rumours pushed by half-informed buffoons.
The core of all is insignificance,
irrelevance of what one’s done:
these words in notebooks, washed away and powerless
against the force of what is coming anyway.