The hands that made you then are long gone down.

Strong muscles worked the forge, they are now ash.

The mind that formed you talks from underground,

speaks of concentrated weight, split by rust rash.

Split, then expanded to a mockery

of this blacksmiths’ inner eye.

It haunts me, this oxidised

corruption of metallic form.

It was born of fire’s beauty-

bright tears sparkling on the anvil,

hot iron hammered to the

flex and strength of steel.

Now it lies on this tideline,

drowned in the salted air.