When sleep shuts off
the winter gale
with its freezing rain
and hail that clatters
on the iron
then silence wakes me
to a still
a softest quiet
I smile to myself
knowing through the night
it’s snowing.

But the bush hath moods and changes,
as the seasons rise and fall,
And the men who know the bush-land
– they are loyal through it all.

Autumn in my garden is when trees give their tickertape welcome to winter.

With alternate shower and shine, the spring goes on her gusty way, and summer lazily woos the land.

Yet Autumn is here like another Spring, a ministering, kindly season, healing the wounds of that too ardent love which Summer gave.

But like a clammy pall comes Winter by and by, and the bush weeps night and day.

Shy gold begins to peep through the sombre green – the wattle's wedding dress – and Spring is near… Then suddenly it seems, one golden morning, the Bush awakes, a living thing. Flowers bloom, birds sing, and all the world puts on its gayest dress to greet the laughing Spring.

The young leaves is shootin' on the trees,
The air is like a long, cool swig o' beer,
The bonzer smell of flow'rs is on the breeze,
An' 'ere's me, 'ere
Jist moochin' round like some pore, barmy coot,
Of 'ope and joy, an' forchin destichoot.

The seasons of nature resonate with the seasons of the soul.

We’re all nurtured by mother nature’s cycles and seasons.