Here comes the first winter’s breath, 

Drawn as a bow from afar,

Like Sagittarius mapped from star to star.

Each year the bow bends further still,

The breath wheezes and seasons blur,

Marking the retreat of the ocean’s shelter, 

Cracking in aged wrinkles of an icy helm, 

Belching glaciers that wrench and tear

At the plains that were long our protector.

Memories of silver fingered festive cheer,

Of snow fed freshness on Christmas days,

Of plausible reindeer and half eaten carrots left on trays, 

These we may bury as childhood fables, 

Marked by the oceangoing gravestones,

That attest our diminished poles.