Wool Classing Exam

Thirteen hopefuls,

All pretty rough and ready,

Rousies, shearers and cockie's wives.

All nervous.

Before us:

The AWEX Descriptors,

A recent wool report,

Small blue cards,

Our reporting sheet,

And three kilos of greasy wool.

Mixed oddments and fleece,

The pile looked huge.

And the clock ticked.

Thirteen sweated and sorted.

Made and remade piles.

Sifted through the dregs,

Cursed under their breath.

And then time was called.

We all cursed then.

Thirteen repeated the ritual.

Fine wool from New England.

Cross-bred from the Wheat Belt,

And medium wool from Condobolin.

Thirteen looked pensive.

Had we done enough.

Most thought that it would be close.

One looked sick with stress.

Thirteen waited.

The clock ticked.

Thirteen were summoned,

Still the clock ticked.

The announcement was subdued,

Some missed it.

But when it was repeated,

One regained his normal palour.

Thirteen now were wool classes.

Chris the Sheep

Lamb of the Monaro,
Beneath the stark blue sky,
In the frost hollows, tree line inverted,
Chris the Merino grew to wether hood.
Spurned by his shorn brethren,
And frightened by men and their stockyards,
He fled.
At first his growing coat was a comfortable barrier,
To winter gales, rain, sleet and occasional snow.
In summer he sought the cooler shelter of the wooded hills.
Time passed but his overgrown staple,
Continued to overgrow.
He became dwarfed by his prison of fleece.
As he passed from lamb to, two tooth to old mutton,
His burden only became greater.
By shear luck he remained upright.
Many a less laden sheep has turned turtle and perished,
With ridiculous legs gesticulating to the heavens.
Luck was on his side.
For he was spotted,
After six years of avoiding the board,
And with great fanfare,
Shorn.
Chris the sheep,
Cultivator of the heaviest fleece,
In the history of shearing.

Shearers have no Bums

It looks comical,
Four shearers stand in a row
Each with a reclining sheep's hoof between his bottom cheeks.
Shearers are lithe and wiry.
They need their belts,
To hold up their trousers.
They have no problems touching their toes,
And when they are on the long blows,
They kneel like sprinters on their blocks.
Shearers work very hard.
During breaks they stretch out on the board,
To unbend their bent backs.
Shearers have soft hands,
From the lanolin,
With prickles,
From the thistles.
Shearers are pranksters.
They brand the roustabout.
And shave off his eyebrow.
Shearers like country music.
Hank, Slim and Johnny,
And they like it,
Loud!

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.

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.