Song of hammer

Labour as lyrical as the musings of an alienated poet searching inspiration in a mass society

Song of the hammer

In the improvised forge

Covered by a torn tent,

On the outskirts of the

 Dusty grey town,

Near the polluted river

Gasping for a whiff of breath,

The sinewy man in

White vest and black shorts,

Rhythmically beats a

Red-hot iron held by

Another bearded man,

In powerful pair of hands,

The rhythm matching

The sweet cadence

Of Shakespearean songs,

Heard once in the Elizabethan bower,

And, again,in an Indian post-graduate class

On Shakespeare taught mechanically

By a young bearded professor,

More English than the Anglo-Saxons,

The regular thak-thak sound,

Reminds of the sonnets of Wordsworth,

The rising/falling hammer composes a

Musical ode unique,

Dripping with the sweat

Of labour,

Over the furnace hot,

The fire illuminating,

The broad, lined, rough visage,

The smiths, in sync,

Creating a harmony,

Out of motion and energy fast,

The dulcet melody,

Heard on the quiet highway afar;

A bold hammer song,

Issuing forth

That forges

Out of a

Bright,

Burning fire,

A splendid  

Useful form!