07-02-2021, 01:18 PM
1
The Smithy's Song
The wind soughs through the broken window,Cobwebs waving in the gentle breeze,
Dust motes floating, sparkling in the air,
As white-hot iron once sparkled in the heat.
Birds fly in and out,
The missing roof tile their front door,
Mice on the floor sharing their world,
Scurry and flapping adding to the soft sounds.
Tools hang lifeless on nails in old dry wood,
Tongs for holding, giant pliers for twisting,
Swages, sledges and wedges,
Waiting for the hand that will never come,
Bars of wrought iron,
A broken gate waiting repair,
A pile of coke, with shovel standing by,
Like a soldier waiting for orders it will never hear.
Leather bellows, split and cracked,
Lifeless like the hearth,
The fierce roar silenced,
No one now to stoke the fire,
The anvil lies cold and dead,
Like the man who once worked it,
His name on a plaque in a foreign land,
Alongside the words, “No known grave.”
The forge is now silent,
But if you listen hard,
You might hear a faint sound,
Like a music box playing in the next room.
If you listen harder still,
You might just hear the Smithy’s song,
Ringing clear and true like a bell,
The song of hammer on iron.
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