Eddie's Shed

Like a well worn pair of hand knitted socks with the heels darned,
The woolshed has the homespun beauty of simple objects.
Like the board and wool room floor,
The rickety homemade wool table is tarnished,
With the grime of lanolin.
It has a soft surface that creates a subtle resistance,\
To palm or footfall.
Table legs are squared,
One with a brick,
Another with broken palings.
Uneven floor sunken,
And in parts missing.
This makes sweeping the locks a challenge.
In pertinent places ancient nails,
Driven into beams,
To hold packs for stain and skin pieces.
Like sagging matrons in middle age,
The wool bins for AAAM, Tender and Coloured fleece,
Are almost dowdy with their lack of symmetry.
They bulge in places generally misshapen.
The odours of sheep and their excrement are not overpowering,
They mingle complimenting the eau de cologne,
Of men's sweat, stale cigarettes and kelpie.
The next run begins,
As does the music,
Loud,
And Slim Dusty has joined us,
As the Ringer from The Top End.