At The Forge Poem by Judy Ponceby
At The Forge
Hammer hard
Fire bright.
Pounding metal
With all my might.
Orange gleaming ore
Glowing craft.
Shaped by hand
Quenched by draught.
Hell's own heat
Makes air singe.
Burning embers
On fiery fringe.
Muscles ache
To the bone.
Making old
Bellows moan.
Shaped with pride
Of hardened steel.
Hone the blade
to razor feel.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
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4/29/2024 6:24:39 PM # 1.0.0.1119
