by W. McM. Cunningham
Sausages sizzle,
chops chatter,
serenading the Sabbath.
Shearers, stockmen, jackeroos
gather round the barbie
tinny in hand
replacing sun-drained fluid.
Tables, morteined against blowflies,
laden with damper,
scones, lamingtons,
salad and fruit.
Shearing done, wool away;
suits for the CBD,
grannies to knit
pink and blue booties
for yet to be born babies.
Was it thus
when Jacob’s flock’s were shorn?
Was multi-coloured coat
made from fine spun wool?
These questions are not raised
by hungry, thirsty men
in the Outback.
Tomorrow, in rusty, battered utes
they travel to another shed.
Asking only for a benign season.
— W. McM. Cunningham lives near Sydney, Australia
