Luke The Blacksmith Poem by Kevin Eaglesfield

Luke the blacksmith died last Sunday.
Fell asleep on his smithy cot.
Mister Richard found him.
People witter on that he had a past,
A ladies' man and children all over,
But he was always good to us,
Patching pans and fixing latches,
And sometimes he took our Jem fishing
Or brought us things from his garden.
When I looked around the empty shop,
The silnce made my ears ring
And the sparkless air made my eyes sting.
Whatever the tittle-tattle,
I know he's fixing the squeak
On Saint Peter's gate
And not hammering toasting forks.