The Anvil
Lump metal fits the smithy's hand,
and held in heat a time it glows.
From plainest load to ornament,
upheld no more - the hammer blows!
Each strike,each threat to change it yields,
a different texture,structure,shape.
It bends and folds obedient-like,
from molten heap to perfect state.
And so transformed,it suffers much.
Its twisted form condemned in fire.
A scattering of embers new -
corrupted now to suit desire,
Eternally the anvil sings
with brandished iron upon a stone,
Its back thick-stained with pounded scrap,
the process done,the seed is sown!
Copyright © Joe O'Rouke | Year Posted 2026
|