The Old Forge

The Forge
All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil’s short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end and square,
Set there immoveable: an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and music.
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.
Seamus Heaney He has a poem for everything


Bright and blustery and no island hopping but we did gather for some lunch at the Heron Gallery. The others went off for a walk over the mountain but I repaired home to do a bit of prep for tomorrow - I'm taking a gang of American students and their tutor to St Gobnait's holy well - fingers crossed that the weather will be a bit less tempestuous than last week's excursion!

This really was an old forge, now abandoned but its rusty door fits the bill for today's AT challenge - thank you Ingeborg.