John Jones | + Follow Poet |
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The Farriers Lad

I stood in awe 
and watched him work
unyielding metal, forged in fire, now bending, 
moulding to his will somehow, unending, 
the blows raining down, 
the hammer's kiss 
drowning birdsong and the forges fiery hiss.
I work the bellows 
to disgorge icy blasts 
of compressed air into the heart
of the white hot coals,
which, like the souls 
of the damned, roared and cracked 
and spat like banshees. 
Sparks spiralled and danced 
as the hammer glanced, 
hither and yon 
on burnished metal 
until they settled 
on baked clay, 
made that way 
by years of toil 
in broiling heat 
and myriad  feet. 
Still the muscled farrier sweated, 
aided and abetted
by eager apprentice, 
noting the swing 
and anvil's sing 
and muscles taut 
and iron wrought 
to shapes in steel 
to rim a wheel
or shoe a horse 
or gate a field. 
I watch it yield
to the blacksmiths will 
and still he works, 
heating,
hammering, 
turning, 
whilst I, 
learning, 
stoke the fire and work the bellows 
until the day mellows
into evening and the last piece is tempered
in water cold which scolds the air in clouds of steam.
Damp the fire, kill the flame, a last swig of cider then,
time to go, 
follow the crow, 
tired men. 
Footsteps weary, tipsy as fools, 
the sweated brow cools 
in the twilight air.
Home to wife and children, 
home to those who care.

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