By Lynn Elder
The change of seasons comes in a rush Of hot air and wilted grasses in the bush. No need to clear out the ash and stoke the fire As ceiling fans whir above, and with a beer In hand the farmer wipes the free-flowing sweat From his sun-beaten face, and without a beat Flicks off the pesky blowflies settled on his work shirt. His wife tucks her tea towel in the band of her skirt, Then says as she leans wearily against the kitchen wall. "It's too bloody hot to eat anything at all!".