The Stolen Republic

It is summer and the smell of burning leaves
recedes in memory till the sense of loss
is bearable, and nothing verdant grieves.
June’s sunburned dancers stone an albatross
that’s landed injured too near to the shore.
The police arrive and drive the crowds away
and shoot the albatross they see as more
of the boring sameness of a summer day.
In gated neighbourhoods up on the bluff
above the shining nearing-empty sea
the power brokers ponder on how rough
they will have to get before the mobs can be
convinced they cannot fight back for the prize
they let be stolen right before their eyes.