Sunday Poem — “The Stage”

 

An Enigma.

12 years old, briefcase in hand,

ready to be Prime Minister.

Credits and debits yet to be counted.

The sum of his parts.

 

A Footnote.

Hedged into irrelevance.

Words and actions in perfect dissonance.

Remembered by the historians,

and puzzled over.

 

A Gardener.

Experience and intention.

A couple winters in Prince Albert,

are all that’s needed to adjust the policies.

And save her soul.

 

An Actor.

Pushing forward blindly.

When the fog lifts off the highway,

Wreckage and shattered lives emerge.

And a nation laments.

 

Was Borden the Best?

The lines are rote.

The lights are dim.

The stage is set.

The curtain rises…

 

By W.N. Branson

 

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