It is October.

It is October.

There is no frost south of the Equator

Unless on top of a mountain

Or in Antarctica where the Emperor penguins

Shuffle back and forth

On wide webbed feet, to stop themselves

From icing up,

Romantics call it dancing

But it just seems a sensible thing to do

When the air is colder in July

Than at Christmas in Henley

Where mute swans are protected by the crown

Or Regent Street, where illuminated angels hang

Over the heads of late-night shoppers

Well-wrapped, in heavy coats and mufflers,

The people and not the angels,

Spending money they can’t afford

Just to see a tableau of penguins

Dancing with reindeer in a winter wonderland

In Selfridges

In Brisbane

The air is as warm as a holiday in the Med,

People are shopping for Christmas

Wearing crop tops and flip-flops

Looking in frosted windows dressed

To look like Lapland

Whilst Santa Claus gives out gifts to startled children

Too afraid to say they don’t know who he is.

Icicles are electric and lit from within,

October is flourishing

With new growth

The air, thick with pollen

As chronic asthma sufferers use inhalers

To keep breathing,

Laughing at traditional movies full of blizzards and sledges,

Eating popcorn and pizza

Wondering why, when it is so hot

South of the border,

The difference is never acknowledged

By entrepreneurial imperialists and wild colonial boys

Peddling a different story

To the wider world

From Holly wood to Mistle toe.