Outback Shearing Shed

I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell, of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell, where hopes and dreams mirrored lives that these shearers led, here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed. I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story often told, in optimistic mirages where water is pure as gold, and living quarters offered would barely shield the moon in stifling heat of summer, or bitter cold in June. All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down. Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground. There's hand-made nails, broken rails, memories that are spread, here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed. I feel like I'm intruding out here on the western plains, standing here in a ghostly wind where it hardly ever rains, imagining I lived the life that these shearers led, in the ruins with the ghosts of an outback shearing shed. All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down. Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground. Oil tins and sharpening stone, broken glass is widely spread here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed. I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell, of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell, where hopes and dreams preceded lives that these shearers led, here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.