The battle at the forge

[Maureen K Clifford]

The Battle at the Forge


The old place slumbered quietly in the early morning haze
as just a wisp of smoke escaped and blended with the days
ascending mist the sun was now busy burning away,
leaving the day to follow on and its beauty display.
The people oohed and aaahed as they watched how the steel was bent
by hard and heavy hammer blows which caused it to relent.
The bellows hissed and puffed and the man worked at them with zeal
fanning the fire to brightness for the working of the steel .

His leather apron protected his broad and manly chest
as arms like well oiled pistons rose and fell without a rest.
He shaped the steel and made it bend according to his will
then thrust it into the slack tub. Water would hiss and spill.
The people oohed and aahed and were amazed at what they saw
for most had never seen a blacksmith working that’s for sure,
and when he clamped the shoe he’d made on the big Clydesdales hoof
‘twas just like going back in time...the smithie visual proof.

Across the wooded valley came the ringing of the steel
and somewhere in the distance one could hear the church bells peal.
Above the kookaburras laughed as they greeted the sun
and fields of wheat held plump gold grain, one acre's yield three tonne.
The rush and push of city felt a million miles away.
Tourist buses disputed that –‘ twas how he earnt his pay.
Each day he sweated at the forge – the tourists aahed and oohed.
The Aussie tourists called him Mate - the Yankees called him Dude.

The sun and soporific sounds caused somnolent effect,
as rising heat within the shed saw temperatures unchecked
and high, giving the folks who watched a feel for life back when
men worked, sweated at honest toil. Not sat desk bound with pen
in high rise offices of glass and plastic, concrete, steel.
Then men rode horses, wagons, drays- not horsepower with a wheel.
Long gone the days when horse was king and blacksmiths horses shoed.
The days when hammer-song was heard. A ringing interlude.

The old place slumbered quietly in the early morning haze.
A honey bee bumbled around inside the sheds iron maze
until at last an opening to the outside it found,
and sought Patterson’s blossoms. Those bright blue flowers abound.
Faces were fanned with hats and books and sweat was wiped away.
One old bloke made a comment ‘It’s a scorcher of a day.’
The smith worked drawing metal on his anvil with great zeal.
His forge stood ready waiting for the battle with the steel.


Maureen Clifford © 02/12

[Neville Briggs]

I worked with a bloke who had been a member of the NSW Police Mounted troop, he also worked as a farrier for the mounties and privately. Boy ! he was tough, best bloke to have with you in a scrap, he never lost any fights

[worddancer]

Hi Maureen,

I love the rhythms and can see the sparks fly in this, of the hammers double blows on the metals.

It also reminds me of the Norther Area of SA, near Wirrabarra where the forge is still hot and busy.
it's good to be in touch again,

Eliza

[Maureen K Clifford]

Thanks Neville and Eliza - as a kid I spent a lot of time in a Blacksmiths shop - hope I captured the feel of it here.

Cheers

Maureen