By | 1 November 2015

We’d often see Rory outside the shed trying to classify
the clouds coming in on the evening wind — clouds
he thought were the farm’s clip of fine-grained wool.
On clear blue days he’d strike match after match
and try to class the smoke. My Aunt would say,
‘There’s Rory again, tricking ghosts.’ She’d told
me years ago, anthrax had turned his arms and legs
black as land stubbed with fire — wool-sorter’s disease
they called it then. These days he’ll look up, sigh,
walk as if he’s about to carry a bale’s weight of wool
towards a skirting table, his fingers feeling air
as if he were testing the wool fat, the tightness
of the crimp, inspecting it for burr and frib.
The shearers tease him, say his mind’s turned soft
as felt. Some days when the sky is full of wispy,
teased-out cirrus, Rory will say that some new shed-hand
has forgotten to sweep away the britch wool
left from the shearing. Sometimes you can hear him
auctioning off his bales, his prices unyielding, his tone
as twangy as a ring of blowflies. Winter mornings
he’s out with his arms raised up into a dense batting of fog.
On summer days he’ll be reaching towards a haze,
even bushfire smoke, or looking into the distance
for stray clouds, ready to coax them towards him
like orphaned lambs. Once one of the shearers stuck
a mess of dags and cotted wool to Rory’s head,
then took to him with rusty shears to do some wigging.
My Uncle punched the man so hard he reeled
round the yard like a whether with the ryegrass staggers.
Sometimes — when we catch Rory looking up
at the sky at a line of cumulus coming in — we smile
and say, ‘There’s Rory wool gathering again.’

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