The Smithy
Don’t mind my doubtful face,
a few choice blows will right it—
tongs but a quarter-turn from the forge.
 
Striker at the hardy hole, 
the smith minds his horn.
Red end—sudden drop—
 
flattened, my lips 
at the upsetting plate,
that I might approach the abyss.
 
Tongue plunged in a throat of steam,
so I speak in the voice of the crow.
Hammers, list a bit—
 
would I were become anvil, 
hit in the service 
of shaping a third thing.
Copyright © 2004–2017 Memorious