It is that time again. The birds have not yet begun their dawn songs, nor has the sun melted through the sky to reveal the reds, oranges, golds and deep purples of the morning.
No, even the moon still hangs low in the sky, grasping on to the darkness.
Tussocks droop low to the ground, burdened by the weight of iced-over dewdrops, stars fade from the sky and you breathe out, heavy and moist against the sharp September air.
Hush. If you close your eyes and shut out your thoughts, you can hear the world sleeping, the moon still dreaming alongside the people.
The absence of sound is a blessing for your tired ears.
Instant coffee peels open your heavy eyes and you gaze out into the revealing hills, bracing yourself for another day’s work. The stoic unchanging hills provide you with a moment’s calm before the storm hits.
Shearing time. The busiest time of the year.
The timeworn corrugated iron of the shed invites you in, and the walls open their dust-caked eyes and listen in as the workday begins.
A chorus of sheep fills the decade-old yards and as the first sheep runs in, you feel the shed breathe in deeply and let out a burdened sigh, shaking the nights sleepy dust off of the corners and walls.
Inside the shed, it is a familiar scene. While the sheep run in, six men assemble and nurture their machines down the board.
Where each man stands, the rimu floorboards are weary-eyed and worn, stamped with the mark of hard work and age.
The rousies gather around the table, waiting for the fleeces to come hurtling down the board and the somewhat controlled frenzy to start.
The stereo is awakened and coaxes the silence into a submission, soaking into every musty crevice of the shed.
Thick smoke clambers it’s way deep into your lungs, sticking to your clothing and hair, filling your nose and staining the glass windows that are just hanging on to the sills that are eaten away by woodboring inhabitants.
The exhaling of burning tobacco from the smokers corner is painful as it struggles through your young clean body, yet at the same time, it is comforting. It caresses and soothes you as you sift through the different memories that it stirs up.
Overhead, hanging in the aged totara rafters, strung out spider webs dangle and float on the cool breeze that seeps in through the white paint-cracked windows.
And so it begins.
Time passes by slowly but efficiently and the men’s counters click, each man beginning his dance. He gracefully moves over and around the body of the sheep with the handpiece, making the wool slide off like silk on skin with every glide of the blade.
Each move is perfected from years of repetition, they move with precision and elegance, instinct controlling their motions letting their brains wander.
Though the air is still bitter and sharp-tongued, the men only wear raggedy holy singlets, beads of sweat already settling in their furrowed brows and highlighting their ink-painted backs.
The machines clash and clang against the music and a chaotic harmony is formed, the workers all moving in a seamless rhythm that is second nature. They move as one team to get the job done as fast as they can, using humour as a mental escape when their bodies begin to give out.
Laughter beams through the music and toothy smiles reveal cigarette stained teeth.
Dust-light chases the cold out of the shed and a trail of sun follows behind, bringing the Spring warmth with it and making the men drip with sweat. Years of hard labour etched across the mens bodies, their carved backs straining as they lean over the sheep.
In the corner, bales get stacked high to the ceiling by the unnervingly strong presser and the farmer’s children climb higher and higher, hoping they can reach the stars, but disappointingly falling short and only reaching the dusty rafters and cobwebs.
You watch from your hidden position in the wool bin, cushioned by the soft embrace of wool, as the men finish their pens and accept smoko time with open arms.
Lighters are passed around and shared as the tired men slouch in the arms of the tattered 50’s chairs in the corner, dragging heavily from cheap cigarettes.
Dark, sweet tea is poured and the men’s bodies are relieved to pause for just a moment. Fresh scones and egg sandwiches made that morning by the farmer’s wife are greedily gone within seconds.
The silence of the machines and radio makes the space in the shed feel empty, the only noise coming from the stirring world outside.
The shed lives for the chaos and is only a shell of itself when the silence rules.
The time comes when smoko is over and the men must get back to work. The mid-afternoon sun settles in your corner of the shed, where you spend most of your September days soaking up the cleansing rays.
Nestled between wool bins that are stacked to the heavens with white clouds, you open up your favourite book once more.
The preloved cover is and fading, the corners of pages creased, stained with greasy fingerprints. Withered pages hang on to the binding just like the shed windows do and your eyes move across the wrinkled words, while the sounds of the shed come back to life once more.
And so it begins again.
Brianna Curtis
