The Mandate

That Monday morning
was filled with fear.

Alien corpses,
on the run.

The salty almond scent
of the family butler.

He would stalk the midnight
corridors
to search, then
touch
the fine oak paneling.

An immigrant, a glutton
for punishment. Distant
lips that formed the words
of displacement.

Heroic fastness,
this blue Earth.

Against the fury of despair,
the appearance of hope in the vast set
of gentle outcomes.

Without reproachment,
the seven seagulls of the Council
wept in torpid unison.