Inherit the Wind

Inherit the Wind

In a small county square where echoes die,
the world hung‑tight between a preacher’s open hymn
and a scar‑lined hand that urged: “We study a theorem!”
A great humid dawn was set on the porch of truth.

With ink‑stained bills and sermons, the judge sat,
his gavel—an obedient, trembling sword—had heard
the thunder of a boy’s reason and the town’s own pride.
A school‑girl, her kilt dyed with doubts, looked on.

To her, the doctrine of the earth is a fight,
and the teacher in his polished curb‑shaped outlook
wrote: “Evolution rules the field, not a tale of betrayal.”
The witness waved, proclaiming the law of double reduction.

The audience gathered: the drunk priest, the miner,
the columnist who traded his pen after a lass’s song.
Everyone listened to the old man’s flamboyant defence:
Conscience, faith, and a stubborn patch of colour in the sky.

Yet in the back, a critical mind lanced the silence,
asked why such refusal to admire the universe?
The judge’s hands were tight‑fingers; the court’s halls were stark—
but the narrative’s breeze refused its clerkful custody.

The verdict fell; the boy fled, the sceptics paused,
and the priest’s voice cracked: “The gospel—our own weapon—
whisper, swallow your mistake, and carry this spark.”
The jury, with a sigh, yielded magnolia and myth.

When the doors locked, the wind roared across the green,
sweeping through each old doctrine and relic.
Teaching, free from the bench, the first child played
in the light of faith and question, mingling with the storm.

In the end, we inherit the wind, not the dust:
it’s the hope that the next student humbly hears,
the gentle grace that keeps the faith unshaken—
a gales‑speckled, brave personal storm.