Splashes of yellow bright sunshine comes between,
Splashes of water bouncing upon the already drenched earth.
Splashes of red and blue announce the arrival of the rosellas,
Splashes of water in the bowls as they frolic and beg for seed.
Splashes and quacking as ducks land on overflowing dams.
Splashes of running water cascading over temporary waterways.
Splashes of mud and water as gumboots wade through.
Splashes and squelching as cattle sink into the quagmire.
Splashes of furious currents as spillways release the excess water.
Splashes as the four-wheel drive negotiates the potholes and puddles.
Splashes on the ground as the rainwater tank overflows.
Splashes of colour emerge in the form of flowers when grey clouds roll away.
Splashes of flowery fashions appear on the sunny spring days.
Splashes continue with each rainy day that insists on not stopping too soon.
Oh, what personality does spring display
When it thinks it is time to play.
Spring can be so fickle,
Also, so changeable.
Spring can be a myriad of colours
As bursting buds bring forth the flowers,
Then disappear in a breeze,
With the sudden arrival of a wintry freeze.
There is a promise of radiant sunshine,
For which we did all through winter pine,
For a return of some warmth to bask in,
And feel the sensation on our skin.
Spring does have a gentle side to its personality,
Amidst all the activity and vitality.
Blossom petals fall softly like light bird feathers,
And newborn lambs and calves snuggle against mothers,
To herald in the hope and joy of spring.
Listen to the crashing waves,
Hear the cry of a lonely gull,
Feel the sting of the salty sea.
Hear the screams of a girl,
Young and frail,
As the giant waves,
Wash her away.
The waves whip the body away,
Far away from the sandy shore.
To the sea it doesn't matter,
Who dies in its icy depths.
When the sea is still,
And the flock of gulls,
None could believe,
That the sea could take a life.
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!".