Joe Whelan The Sheep Shearers

The Sheep Shearers

joe whelan

The morning sun had me removing my own fleece, 22 degrees and it wasn’t yet 11 o clock. The flock were in and we waited on the men from the Nire

“Guiry’s men rise late but they’d work all night,” the uncle said. “They’ll be there be dinner time” In Harney’s Cross the table was set for one o clock.

So, we readied sheds in case of rain Corralled pens and darned wool bags We tied gates with baling twine. And ran cables for the shears.

I opened two new tins of raddle,* Blood red for the pole, Ink blue for the hip Stripes on an American flag.

They arrived at the crack of noon Just as the spuds were ready. I couldn’t tell if it was their breakfast or dinner, But when they finished there was little left for dogs.

“We better make a start,” says Guiry And four machines collectively whirred.

Dogs worried sheep And flies annoyed men, But the buzzing of the razors Drowned out all other pests

I always struggled with the first ewe. She’d waltz me across the pen In some obscure tango. Eventually I wrestle her onto her rear

And sit her up like a teddy bear. Guiry, effortlessly pulled her to him, Making light of my work

The razor lifted the grey coat of winter, A plough pushing away dirty snow Leaving ivory trails on spent ski slopes. Flecks of crimson betrayed his unsteady hand, A consequence of a break for “a couple of large bottles.” He called for Dettol. As flies shrouded the wound.

I felt the relief of the sheep as her shorn fleece was tossed in the pile. I raddled her pole and hip Our colours, like a biker’s badges of honour, Marking our territory. “Whelan’s ewes outa Harney’s cross,” I said, Guiry jolted me out of my trance as he called for another sheep. I left one daydream and tangoed with another across the pen.

*raddle is a coloured marking for sheep