A Bush Christmas

The sun burns hotly thro’ the gums
As down the road old Rogan comes –
The hatter from the lonely hut
Beside the track to Woollybutt.
He likes to spend his Christmas with us here.
He says a man gets sort of strange
Living alone without a change
Gets sort of settled in his way;
And so he comes each Christmas day
To share a bite of tucker and a beer.

It’s Christmas in the bush and there’s not a sign of snow in sight. The kitchen has heated up nicely with enough roasted turkey and plum pudding to help diners burst at the seams.