The Blacksmith Poem by Dawn Owens

He was a short stocky man
who had a quiet hand
weather beaten and brown
living on the outskirts of Town
he travelled far and wide
his skill could not be denide
no horse would disobey
whatever he'd say
new shoes would be made
of the very best grade
a perfect shaped hoof
we could see the proof
Blacksmith by day
but a farmer in every way
raising beef by hand
living and working on the land
the rolling hills call him home
to the farm he loves to roam