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The Shearing Shed

Every time I’ve been to the shed it’s overcast. Inside is timber, some posts are splintery, others worn and smooth. The wood is warm brown, and natural light comes in from where the timber doesn’t quite fit together.

Rainbow lights,

Bird’s nests,

Cords hanging down along beams.
Door half hanging off,

Yellow grasses here and there,

In the distance traffic.  In the shed there’s noises that you don’t hear, not because they’re quiet, but because they’re constant. There’s the wind softly blowing on the tin, crickets and the creaking footsteps on wood, but there is also stillness. The shed in itself is silent.

Small books, old newspapers,

Pieces of wool sitting on the floor.

 

Red dirt.  Walking up to the shed, it smelled earthy, dusty. Dry dirt tickled my nose – I have a constant need to sneeze.  Although there haven’t been any sheep in here for a long time, there’s still a strong stench of manure and wool.

Old rusty shearing shears in spider webs,

Rouse about racks.

 

An old unplugged wireless.

It’s cold inside, but not as cold as outside. There’s not as much wind. I can feel the uneven floorboards, even the grit through my shoes. Everything in here is so dirty, but a clean, sort of natural dirt.

Lots of browns,

Bunting, stencils scattered ‘round.

 

There’s half-finished projects from all different people.  I’ve been here a few times, and every time I come back there’s always something left from the time before.  A lot of things happen in this shed, but none of them ever really finish.

Authors: Izzi Ward Mead and Ginger Stonehouse
Written as part of the Acoustic Life of Sheds 2017