Old broken shed with busted green doors,
Huge iron hinges and work worn floor.
The old man rattled around the forge and bench and tools,
Making haste and working sweat, to beat the heat that cools.
Mastery of a 20ft shed and maker of life’s needs,
On the job he solves the problems with his iron deeds.
Making noise like old bellows, he forces out his labour,
Natures resistance in the iron affords not fear or favour.
He melds the iron and makes his living and strains for the day,
He imposes his will and carves his place and why? He’ll never say.
But quietly, as iron becomes his will,
I know his peace of mind is delivered by his skill…