The Blacksmith
(20th January 2020)
Light that falls – anvil-like upon the field.
By rise of moon is anguish revealed.
The raven’s pickings, left strewn;
Sounds of night, in half hewn.
Await the morrow, come it like,
Hammer fall upon the night.
Sparks that shine on dew tipped blades,
As day is forged, sunrise cascades.
Ravens scatter, field is bare,
As light of dawn shines through the air.
In the distance, grows the clouds;
By glare of morning, dark, enshrouds.
Life of water, that shall fall:
Feed the flora, now still small;
Feed the birds and beasts, in turn;
Feed mankind, cycle adjourn.
For naught shall feed on man but man,
Until mankind is weak and wan.
And as smith’s scythe, on crops descends,
Mankind’s progress, mankind ends.
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