I am a lady of doubtful age, greying at the temples, past reproducing and enjoying the benefits of retirement. I enjoy words and have developed a love of Haiku, Tanka, Fibonacci and other forms of short poetry. The challenge of saying as much as possible in as few words as possible is a challenge indeed for any female.
From pens sheep are dragged, slid on their haunches,
more are pushed in from outside in the sun,
their jaws dripping froth from the drenching gun,
black singlets, bronze arms, beer filled fat paunches.
Sweat trickles down from the Shearer's brown chin,
white bellied fleeces floating to settle
on skirting tables, the shriek of a kettle
heralds a break from the dust, grease and din.
Presses that groan from the wool tight inside.
Bales are stacked high stamped with our number,
dogs bark themselves hoarse then creep off to slumber,
tongues lolling out, a cool place to hide.
Arranged in a heap with indecent haste
sheep waltz with the shears - a three-step at pace.