If These Walls Could Talk: Life within the shearing shed walls.

If these walls could talk,

They’d tell you a million stories —

Stories of years gone by,

Of local legends and farming feats.

If these walls could talk,

They’d tell you of yarns over hot cups of tea,

warm sausage rolls,

And fresh home-baked scones.

If these walls could talk,

They’d tell you stories of laughter

After a hard day’s work,

And cold king browns.

If these walls could talk,

They’d tell you of kids jumping in wool presses,

Sweeping boards,

And learning to throw a fleece.

If these walls could talk,

They’d tell you about mateship —

Built on the boards,

And the rhythmic hum of the handpiece.

If these walls could talk,

They’d tell you of lessons not learnt at school,

But of after-hour biology classes led by big brothers,

While a fresh carcass hung above.

If these walls could talk,

You’d hear of quite moments shared,

Between grinding sparks,

As combs and cutters were sharpened,

And the moon lit the night.

If these walls could talk,

They’d tell you of bales being rolled out the press,

Stamped with ink and stacked into the waiting truck

Ready for market.

If these walls could talk,

They’d tell you of the rhythmic hum of the shearing day —

The baa’ing of sheep,

The barking of dogs,

The stop start of hand pieces,

And the general banter between hard working mates.

If these walls could talk,

They’d tell you of shearers napping amongst unbaled fleeces,

Of singing along to radio tunes,

And being the first to name that song,

Their one lined banter often filling the shed with laughter.

If these walls could talk,

They’d tell you a story of farming life —

Where memories are made,

Passed on,

And remembered

Always.

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