His old forge is still there,
But now derelict and grey
No more bright sparks, no fire to flare,
Just dark inside all day.
The anvil’s music plays no more,
The stone trough’s black and dry,
The bellows blowing days are o’er,
No smoke to blind the eye.
No hairy hoof, no rasp or shoe
To cool with sizzling sound,
No echo of the hammer’s blow
Just swallows darting round.
On old stone walls now ivy grow,
Briars spread thick and tall,
Old blacksmith Nick is now asleep
Inside the graveyard wall.
No more he’ll beat the iron red
Into his works of art,
The blacksmith and his trade are dead
And too his gentle heart.
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Great poem!
Thank you. So much appreciated.
PADDY. You are so gifted. I ENJOY YOUR POST.
Thank you. You’re so kind.
Our modern world is not without its sadness, Paddy. Lovely words.