I stood outside an old tin shed,

there was no other person there.

Though evidence lay all around

of people who had once lived here.

Into the shed by leaning door

I stooped to see what I could find

greeted by wind and banging roof,

a creaking door and singing wire.

Through broken, dirty window panes

and gaps where wind had its way.

The evening light seeped slowly in,

to show my eyes where treasures lay.

I found an old and broken chair,

replete with dust and nest of hay

and sitting down I took my ease

to think about another day.

And then it seemed, ghosts called to me,

a crying baby, laughing child.

A mother calling, barking dog;

the lowing cattle on the hill.

Now my eyes could see more things.

Two broken down and useless “Utes,”

piled high with pipe, wire and junk,

that only farmers, save to use.

I heard the farmer call his dog.

The dog’s claws clattered the utes deck.

A cloud of dust and they’re gone

to work the sheep down by the creek.

Silence, then weeping on the wind –

came softly to my straining ears.

What caused such anguish in this place.

What sorrow brought these sobbing tears?

I heard a scratching; what was that?

Some paper rustled by the door.

And all at once I understood

why no one lived here any more.

A drought is cruel, but part of life.

In arid countries, rain is gold.

But markets lost for what ones wrought

can also drain a farmers soul.

And far beyond the farmers fields,

in cities where high towers stand.

Men whose hands are soft and white

decide the fates of working men.

Then when a market has dried up

like dams cracked by lack of rain,

the water left, just slips away,

the money dwindles down the drain.

I feel tear streaks upon my face,

etched in the dust, a drying creek,

then silently I steal away

to let these ghosts go back to sleep.

 
David Garlick, Kangaroo Island, Australia, February, 1992
 
Written for David Mulroney, who found the  “Old Tin Shed”.