THE SMIDDY

The smiddy lies empty
The blacksmith’s away
The anvil is silent, this time of the day
The hammer and tongs
The bellows and such
Are all lying idle, not doing too much
The horse in the pasture, awaits to be shod
The builder is working, without his new hod
The village is quiet, no song of the hammer
Striking the anvil, like some metalic choir.

W.J.K.