The season has shifted in its cycle,
as it has always done and ever will,
from when the First Nations trod across
this land to this overly ‘civilised’ world
where all things seem under control.
The season has moved to clinging cold
and the winter blast from the south has
driven us inside, as the chill and the
rain enclose us in their misty net, but
we are safe from the bitter world outside.
And from these cocoons we emerge out,
becoated, and drive in heat from one place
to another, complaining about the cold and
the rain, till we return to the place from
whence we came to snuggle in our beds.