This poem describes a very Canadian ritual. Many cottages nowadays are really holiday houses accessible all through the year and boasting every mod con, but the one in this poem is a log cabin on a small lake. It could only be reached by boat or by a long and arduous trek through the woods. It was first published in Hill Spirits (Blue Denim Press 2012), an anthology of poems and stories by writers from Northumberland County, Ontario.

Shutting up the Cottage

October again and we’re crammed in the car,

Gawping at splotches of operatic trees

singing their swan song, facing south.

Ah! How like Thomson, we cry,

or Jackson, or even MacDonald!

We flick through landscapes, as

though they were plates in a book.

The crowded seats are loudly warm

with bundled children, sweaters, and

the dog. No match though for the heated

colours up against the windows.

Above…