Blacksmith

The furnace rages with hottest flames,

Flames I stoked and sought to create.

This is my profession, my life, no games,

Each sword or dagger I forge must be great.

The furnace now burns just hot enough,

Hot enough for my metal in heat’s heart.

This is no mere metal, this is doubly tough.

To forge and bend my mettle, it is an art.

The metal glowed all over with orange heat,

This must be magnificent, this is no mere metal,

The anvil and metal screeched, at each hammer beat,

I must bend this mettle, for I dream of my damsel.

The dreams bound in darkness and fantasy,

Were maybe enough in my youth and fear,

But my hammer beats mettle absent mercy,

To pull those dreams from cloudy castles in air.

The mettle seems to be forged and bent well,

Anvil and hammer strike do make a fine team,

Rest the mettle in water, remove the heat of hell.

Hear the mettle hiss and birth a cloud of steam.

This feels right, the mettle feels fine,

The mettle may be just right enough,

For the damsel to want to be mine,

Beyond my dreaming’s cloudy puff.