The Smithy
The smithy’s feelings ran amuck
His work began to show it
He did the best he could
To realize the storm
He’d bash each piece one extra time
And revel in the steam
His hammer swift as lightning
Like falling in a dream
He stoked the fire twice as fast
And jabbed at all the embers
His bucket and his anvil
Much lighter, he remembers
No use of any apron
No need of any glove
No shield upon his face
No shelter from his love
A blade of finest iron
Delivered straight and true
Couldn’t pierce his anger
Or sever something blue
Copyright © Mike Martin 2015
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