Australian Seasons Months May 2026
October was the busiest month. Shearing came, and with it, the shearers—rough, funny men who could eat a whole steak and three eggs for breakfast and still be hungry. The shed buzzed with the sound of electric clippers, the smell of lanolin, and the constant thud of wool bales being pressed. The children collected the fluffy, greasy wool scraps to put out for the birds to line their nests. Grandad stood at the wool table, classing the fleeces into bins: skirtings, bellies, and the precious, pristine main fleece. “This,” he said, holding up a cloud of white wool, “is our cheque book.”
Inside the homestead, life contracted. The children did their homework at the big kitchen table, and Grandad told stories of the big drought of ’82. The fire was always lit. Sarah made stews and damper bread. The world outside was a chore to be faced quickly—fill the troughs, break the ice on the water buckets, check for lambs that might have been born early.
“June is about keeping the core warm,” Grandad said, knitting a new jumper from the wool of last year’s best ewe. australian seasons months
On the first morning of summer, Grandad Mac woke Leo before dawn. “C’mon, boy. The ewes need moving before the sun turns the yard into a frypan.”
The days were golden and still, the light turning syrupy in the late afternoon. The box trees along the creek dropped their leaves, which floated down like small, leathery coins. Leo loved mustering in March—the sheep were calm, the flies were gone, and the sun on his back was a warmth, not a weapon. October was the busiest month
“Look,” she said, pointing. “That’s our whole year, right there. The summer heat that dries it, the autumn winds that cool it, the winter frost that rests it, and the spring rain that wakes it up again.”
That night, a November thunderstorm rolled in. The family sat on the verandah, watching the lightning stitch the sky. The first fat raindrops hit the dust, and the smell of summer’s return filled the air. Grandad Mac rocked in his chair and smiled. The children collected the fluffy, greasy wool scraps
The air was still almost cool as they walked, their boots crunching on dry grass. By nine o’clock, the temperature had climbed past thirty degrees. The flies arrived first—a persistent, buzzing cloud that settled on the corners of your eyes and mouth. Then came the cicadas, their vibrating drone filling the gum trees like a million tiny engines.