Ancient verdant seats,
Filled in absentia and
Used to breathtaking effect.
Bewildered subjects of
His Majesty,
Flash with a piercing light.
Tremors are felt within,
And an undercurrent builds,
To a dangerous quavering.
The Law of the Land,
As rags to the cleaner in the stall.
But bereft of the honour found in that work.
Incompetence or malfeasance,
The result is the same at the end.
As Buster Keaton ponders the Pacific
And turns around.
By W.N. Branson 
