Your sweat-speckled brow drier
Your fingernails free of trail dirt
You can see past the post.
Upon the same bluffs where eagles bed
And with clawing branches behind you,
you breathe out earlier blooms of doubt
It hardly seems fair to have journeyed so long,
To have needed the guidance of so many hands;
But, in scrambling from hearth to peak,
you found the footslog worthwhile.
You are the governor:
Prime State Slogger – Omniscient Father -Trumpet of Reason!
The devil’s wine sanctified the ceremony,
Hissing excitedly in flutes,
handled by an ambitious room.
Lush, and still full of the ceremony,
You were undisturbed by the groundswell,
The broad mass advancing in the distance,
Rolling forward like a warring wave.
They say you cannot, as you claim,
while wielding a blade.
They say you consume the wine of fools,
by demonstrating emblematic vice;
But those who know you
— You, the governor —
Honour your right to lead.
“He is a good steward,” they say,
“And assuredly the right man for this republican season.”
Under your guidance, Governor,
they expect the pillars of faith and knowledge to prevail,
That, like Noah — Bold steward of stormy seas —
you’ll deliver them onto brighter shores.
If they’re right,
May proof come quickly,
And may it calm the fretted outsiders:-
Those suffering and world-weary;
Outsiders who watch from near and far,
Hoping earnestly with each news-flash
that your mission is grounded in the good;
That as you till, you’ll spread civic gains,
Not just economic pains.
They watch you survey the golden valley of ease:
A distinguished catbird behind a veil of leaves,
Enjoying the ever-flowing wealth beyond the dells,
And from your stately plot, they expect little good;
Only lessening stores of milk, butter and cheese.
Yet, if your supporters have it right,
no doubt you see clearly from your mount,
Tracing from there the glacial shifts that produced today —
Shifts that cause folks to face or fear the times.
Or perhaps you look on, like one in the struggle,
Seeking a perspective aptly refined.
All the same, your story is theirs, and theirs mine,
Riveting foreign and domestic ears.
Wearily looking on, I cannot tell:
Will you feed them fermented vinegar,
or share with them the sparkling wine?
There are so many questions, answerable, without leaping time.
But in the end,
If there are tears for things,
Let it not be tears for democracy
And that delicate flower — Liberty.