Prime Minister of Canada Justin Trudeau and his wife Sophie Gregoire Trudeau are greeted by Taoiseach Leo Varadkar TD as they arrive at Dublin Castle for the Official Dinner last night.
Cometh the rubbish haircuts firing tweets and ICBMs;
the people with bad teeth daring belch their opinions in public.
Cometh also the Warren Beatty of the North,
sans the wrinkles and heavy politics, bearing
to the sisterhood of the stuffed vine leaf
and gourmet sausage
ribbon-wrapped boxes labelled ‘hope’,
‘moderation’, and ‘free trade’;
your tongue’s delicious wiggling
persuading even Lycra clad
husbands to put bikes and running shoes aside
a moment and join the ravenous pack of dangerous
sensibilists in drizzling a tribute
of garlic butter all over
your French speaking torso.
Your hair, a field of wheat that reminds
soon-to-be-ex Prime Ministers
of better times.
Your words, as gorgeously proportional
as the gossip from the ladies’ golf-club,
float off towards the sun.
Yesterday: Trudeau, Madly Deeply