******
** The Sheds This is how it looked sixty years ago: except for the poly pipe and the brace between the stump steps and the post. And the stump was younger, sturdier, less eroded, with a life time of service still ahead. In that shed there had been a dinghy – out of its element in this place of earth and sky. It was made of corrugated iron, flat bottomed with fore and aft curved upwards to a blunt stem and stern; a tinny before the word was coined. I marvelled at it for its simple matter of fact construction; it demonstrated that the Riethmullers could make anything. I imagined going fishing in it for yellow-belly in the Condamine like my uncles used to do.
There were other galvanised iron sheds on the farm. One held stacked bags of grain. To climb those stacks; the smell of grain, of fertiliser, of mice, in my nostrils. The bags, tightly filled to near bursting, their hessian skin rubbed companionably on mine as I scaled those fragrant battlements.
There were other galvanised iron sheds on the farm. One held stacked bags of grain. To climb those stacks; the smell of grain, of fertiliser, of mice, in my nostrils. The bags, tightly filled to near bursting, their hessian skin rubbed companionably on mine as I scaled those fragrant battlements.
Then there was the big machinery shed where the combine-harvester sat silent and brooding, no doubt impatient for the coming harvest, in moody half darkness. Daylight leaking through cracks between wall and roof. Potpourri: mice, chaff, grain, but with grease added to the mix. Uncomplaining, it allowed me to clamber all over it. I took my position on the operator’s seat, my legs stretched, yet too short to reach the pedals. The mysterious levers unyielding to my efforts.
Flesh and blood entranced,
the mystique of the machine
held me in its thrall.
the mystique of the machine
held me in its thrall.
***
No comments:
Post a Comment