2021
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 174
The Lowell Review