It passes quickly through the winter town.
In this season, me has become us
as if the world’s riches were running out.
There is chaos in the sales hall
in the perfume shop, a near riot.
Drawn like insects to the gaudy mall
in strange dances, we jostle and thrum
through the cells of the multi-coloured hive.
We slide, hum and collide, busily
clutching our packages, our love.
Are we asleep or more keenly alive?
It is a play in which we know our part.
A ritual of the altruistic heart.
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