Blacksmith

The strong prongs throng
Where the anvil is visible
The bellows sometimes mellow
When the kiln is cold within

The hammer sometimes a murmur
When the metal tempo is soft
Though a bang and a clang
When the bar is hardy and bouldy

The files in the filing cabinet
Where the whetstone sits
The horseshoe string hangs
Without any but one

The mallet in scarlet
Whiles in a brood the mood
That engulfs the silence
Water sizzles leave

The water trough triumphs
When it meets the molten metals
The vapors waver in vain
When the breeze stirs between

The muscles bulge in bustle
Working the bellows ferociously
The fire crackles like a pyre
When the coals are blown to glow

By the blacksmith.

© GIDRAF MWANGI