An old cabin stands midst spruce and fir,
Battered by storms and bleached by the sun,
Smelling of wood smoke, moss, and myrrh,
While all around is heard the stir,
Of myriad creatures on the run.
Shrews, and lemmings and mice are there,
Scampering through the old warped door,
Finding a hospice, free from fear,
Large enough for all to share,
While piling up their winter store.
Then like a cataclysmic crash,
Into this haven of repose,
Large lumbering bodies now impose,
To sweep out all the gathered 'trash',
And all their sustenance dispose.
Like thunderstorms at summer's height,
These noisy revellers fade away,
But shrews, and lemmings, and mice all stay,
Urged by the sun's diminished light,
They soon repair the disarray.
The old cabin stands in the chilling air,
While far in the forest the ravens caw.
Now, nestled deep in their beds of straw,
The cabin dwellers are legal and clear,
Ownership being nine tenths of the law.
The author is David Caravan, Bay Roberts