The Blacksmith’s Skills (Not now my head)

My head now poundeth as the Blacksmith’s tools

Where furnace smelts silver for finest blades all,

Hammering harshly, deafening blows

Rifles out shouting, even the crows

echoing mountainous squawls.

Knights bound thro’ with clambering sound

As armour clatter crescending sound.

Pound after pound, on smelted ore

Earth screams out her soul’s core, torn

From her depths give birth

To metals from skills passed on through

Father, Parent, Son –

Not now, poundeth my head.

 

© Sharon-Elizabeth Walker, 2012

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