Old Shearing Shed Art Studio
Larger than large, fostering the void,
Rippled iron for the walls, roof and door,
Above six-foot legs reaching up from the dirt,
To cradle the woollen greased floor,
With broken old memories in the years now at peace,
Years from the sheep shearing and men,
Years of disused hard immovable love,
Love from the chutes, race and pens,
This ghostly lit hall became an art hub,
Again a busy but with beautiful paint,
Where freedom can sit and relax with the past,
Where life can go to escape,
And walls are now coloured with exquisite art pop,
Everything here is a friend,
That greets folks each time they create art with a brush,
In the hundred year old shearing shed.
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