Shearing

When shearers take a break,
Off goes the loud country music.
The rouses with aspirations have a go.
The others sweep the locks from beneath the table
They tidy the bags for stain and pieces.
The shearers after a quick bite and a fag
Stretch their now unbent backs on the board
A rolled up towel as a pillow.
If the weather is cool,
Like at crutching time,
They may cover themselves with a coat or blanket.
I have seen one sleeping in the pieces at lunchtime.
The dogs help pen up more sheep
Then at the precise tick of the clock
On goes the music.
Loud enough to be heard through ear plugs.
And the first ewes are dragged out backwards,
across the board.
And then the dance begins.
Until the partner is unceremoniously,
Shoved down the chute,
Only to be replaced by another.