The people waited. They turned inward to the house, the family, the self. They tried not to dwindle and shrivel
like last year’s apples. Not to evaporate
on the turncoat air.
 
They tried not to be cruel, most of them,
most of the time. They tried
not to rage at everything
but to use their anger justly.
They tried to be patient.
 
They watched while fools kite-high
on unearned power, reckless avarice,
cawed their carrion song, soared on the waxy wings
of a hundred thousand false promises, spun
death-denying spins, looped breathtaking loops,
lied and lied and lied.
 
The people, thinking themselves helpless,
yet wishing not to be unkind,
watched, nonetheless, for the fools to fall to earth.

Mandy Macdonald lives in Aberdeen. Her small collection, The Temperature of Blue was recently published by Blue Salt Collective.