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