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.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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