Shearing!

SHEARING

My favourite time of year.
Waking to crisp mornings
Beating the sun out of bed for once.
Barking dogs shatter the stillness,
Ensuring the skittish flock haven’t forgotten who reigns supreme.

Dust on the track.
The team have arrived.
All different shapes and sizes tumble out of the roo-dented van.
All big. All strong. All with a durry hanging out the corner of their mouths.

The important stuff gets unloaded first.
The speaker, the microwave and the fans.
Then the other stuff.

Five minutes to seven.
All the gear is unloaded.

Two minutes to seven.
 Jumpers off. Music on.

One minute to seven.
They’re out the back wrestling with their first customer.

Seven o’clock.
The whine of the shears begins,
unleashing the thick overpowering smell of lanolin that gets
deep in your palms, under your fingernails, in the air.

Every movement like a practised dance,
from the first to the final flowing blow
separating fleece from warm trembling beast.

Like clockwork, the team races through the day
Until the ticking clock commands stop
and broken backs uncoil like springs.

I walk with purpose and pride through the sheds,
playing my part in this dance of organised chaos.
We ride on the sheep’s back now it’s time to collect the golden fleece,
just like the Tom Roberts painting that hangs on our loungeroom wall.

This is the life.