Jack Reardon was a blacksmith,
A master of his art,
Tough and muscled shoulders,
Looked at least a mile apart.
He wore grey flannel singlets,
Leather apron tied at back
One solitary lower tooth,
Hair that once was black.
He lacks formal education,
Mostly was self-taught,
A Maestro of the anvil!
And the metal that he wrought.
Works the forge and bellows,
With one hairy, brawny arm,
Wind blown flames harsh whispers,
Disturb the smith shop calm.
The striker stands with folded arms,
His hammer by his side,
His heavy task will soon begin,
As boy and steel collide.
The striker waits for old Jacks nod,
The sign of when to start,
A quick glance at those shoulders,
At least a mile apart!
|
Jack draws out the white- hot steel,
Lays it on the block,
Indicates the spot to hit,
Then the metal feels the shock.
The tempo must be good and true,
As the striker starts his swing,
The first strike sends the sparks aloft,
Makes the anvil chorus sing.
The striking hammers perfect arc,
Brings Jack’s approving wink.
Alternate strikes change the steel,
White-hot to palest pink!
Pump the bellows one more time,
The air with sparks festooned,
Echoes of the bell-like sounds,
Of an anvil finely tuned.
The sweat stains of the flannel shirt,
Run down from neck to belly,
The striker lad is quite distraught,
His muscles turned to jelly.
Old Jack walks into the sun,
With his now cold piece of art,
The shadow of his shoulders seem
At least a mile apart. |
