The Blacksmith

The Blacksmith

Shadows chase across the faces
of my children. The forge is lit,
flames spit to the bellows breath.
Buried in the fire, metal melts,
soon I shall fashion                                                                                                              
another sword for Urien.

My wife cradles our youngest life,
she is troubled but hides it well.
Like her mother, she has the gift
of far-sight, claims to see visions
being played out                                                                                                                          in the dancing flames.

I have no time for such notions!
I have a King to arm, children to feed!
My hammer falls, pounds
at my growing fear.
Yesterday, she looked into the forge
and saw only fire!