Phoenix

It was finally felled by great gusts,
Gutted, it had no bones for its iron skin.
So it fell.
Mostly.
The large timber posts held.
Half the gabled roof hangs.
With each new blast of wind, the loosened iron sheets,
"Clatter and clang, clatter and clang."

We are here today, along with the wind,
To salvage the best it can offer.
We collect and sort the iron,
That has flown to all corners of the paddock.
The playful wind tugs it from our grasp.
Continuing its game.

Then the fallen rafters and batons are liberated.
But we trip over haphazard debris.
And the uncovered rabbit warrens.
Having the last laugh,
The wind whips our hair into our eyes.

But we are not deterred.
In our mind's eye, the shed,
That will rise again in a new location,
On our farm.

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.