Friday, February 24, 2012
Poem: Blacksmith Tears
The forge blows a searing heat,
The blacksmith drums a solemn beat,
Upon his work and in his room.
The flat of metal, fashioned ere,
Glowing white and angry red,
Each hammer strike,
The blacksmith pauses, seeing blood,
Slick and thick upon the steel,
Running deep, running far.
A curse, a pox, a mighty dread.
Eyes wide and breath so quick,
The blacksmith looks to the back,
Where family lies, deep asleep,
Innocent of all but: dependence.
Raising solid arm again,
The hammer deals out the truth,
Careless of the guilty tears,
Careless of the helpless rage.
A blade is fashioned, doused and drawn,
Ready for its deadly song,
The metal forger scrubs sad eyes,
And draws one more blank, with a sigh.
© 2012 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.
Perhaps a vision of Perrin Aybara, of The Wheel of Time, was stoutly entrenched in my mind when this vision came forth. The blacksmith—big and strong, gruff and silent—always working alone on their craft. Sometimes forming tools, sometimes pots, and sometimes implements of death. What would a peaceful man do?
What do we all do?
There lies the query.