Reflections at the Forge
The blacksmith gruffed at me To look at his hammer-haft. When I took Its rise and hollow, shapely as a limb, Burnished down to the grain, a worked wood Married to the horny thumb, I could Not but see the mate of Such a rosy dermis as (layer of Horn, layer of light, granular Bed, make skin) you spread—lotus on dark Lake when the first birds Flash the day with a tune like Horny-ended fingers of the fiddler Hammer, a trill that fills the room With an ample, an iron ringing: richness of air Like petal or silent woman at— But a child's eyes are sharp: 'When the sparks go starry,' she says, 'He'll Begin playing his tune : pick me Up quick' . . . The iron rings a wheel of sparks Hissed in a red spurt Spoked from the anvil. A flower Flushed from the beak, it rings its (light As crystal or a gay quaver) morning Birdsong around, inside, everywhere over that Glowing and rosy cooling.
JOHN HOLLOWAY
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