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Poem	I was a good father to my people, Their houses among the terraced hills Adored God every day, grape-clusters on the vines Made Christ’s blood richer in the goblet My father gave me: the chased silver had vines Round the stem and Cellini made it, ‘Let him take it to Rome’, he had said, ‘The Pope will adore it.’ The backs of my people Bent as I held it aloft with the Host, The silver blazed in our eyes like the sun, Their lips were cracked as they sipped The delicate wine, the crook of my finger already Held the ring of a Bishop but I would not go; ‘When the harvest is over’, I said, let me bless The gathered grapes, I love to watch the purple juice Flowing from under their feet and the feast after. But my father called, I left my people With a sot who embarrassed the Bishop. I was not long in my see, two Popes died quickly And my father’s whispers never ceased, Rome called And I was Cardinal at last. It is hot, fever-ridden, No-one dare speak for the ears of spies; I toss at night in my high room through my window The villa’d hills, my private chapel has the goblet, I hear my people starved in a famine, Their harvest blighted for three years.
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