August J. M. Strother Dragging hoses without end To gardens parched and dry, Where even weeds droop and wilt Under the high August sun. When will the weather break, I beg, To the uncompromising skies? When will the rain again gently fall To nourish small green lives? I do not love the heat of August. No, summer is not my time. So, Autumn, hurry on your way And replenish my aching soul.

Amen to that. I think this poem phrases it perfectly. Autumn needs to get here quickly. I'm definitely tired of this heat. Nice poem!

rain, rain, rain, neverending damp, mould abounds I feel like I'm on another planet where the only forms of life are various mushrooms seen vaguely through the cloud of fungal spores. My wife remarked on my looking rather hairy; it's actually the mycellia that I'm trailing. My computer smells of mould. I can't remember what the sun looked like...:)