They're usually deceased estates,
A person's life placed out on black plastic,
Neat rows of furniture and household goods,
Room by room, like with like.
Picked apart like carrion.
Then the contents of farm sheds
And detritus from distant paddocks is bought together.
The new, the old and the in need of repair.
The farmers open trunks, lift bonnets and scratch their heads.
At ten o clock the bidding commences.
There is a jocular attitude amongst those competing for bargains.
The auctioneer maintains a familial banter.
He puts a shiny gloss on the items, that only he can see.
I came for an old wool table.
Too small for a 'real' shearing shed.
But as I have only a handful of fleeces and my shed is small.
It was perfect.
The table is rickety, rugged and homemade.
The slats are young wattles.
And I love the honesty of its construction,
Born of necessity in a simpler time.
A covering of lanolin it wears like a badge of honour.
The mental image of this tool,
Being used in my shearing shed,
Is a practical, romantic ideal,
Too short lived.
I could not outbid the fashionable lady from the city,
With the desire for a quaint pot plant holder.
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