Uncle’s Hammer
A strangely solitary child
Allowed to wander around
The working Forge and
The foundry ground
Unaware then
That it couldn’t last
And I was quietly recording
A fast approaching past.
It darted here,
It danced there,
Applying force with
Precision and care.
Here a tap,
There a thump,
Turning that once
Near molten iron lump
Into a shape
Of near precision
Each blow landed
With skill and decision.
Each piece judged
Solely by eye
Before quenching water’s
Acrid hiss bubble and sigh.
Uncle’s old hammer
Would peal and ring
Making his old anvil
Vibrate and sing.
Shires and Hunters shod,
Machinery cleaned and mended
A myriad of essential tasks
To be organised and tended.
When that Old Forge was
Full of movement and creation
With a craft that thrived then died
In a single changing generation.
Preserved for posterity it now stands
There in the old Smithy ground
I wonder if Uncle’s old hammer
Has still been kept around.
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