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Forge Master’s Unspoken Question

Meditate upon the steel,
is it right for the work ahead.
Will it gleam on glowing ashes bed,
and whisper soft enough to feel?

Five pound hammer sets a gentle pace,
to turn the edge in endless folds.
In rhythms timeless and oh so old,
as steel flows as delicate as folded lace.

From red to orange and soft bright white,
the coals glow to bellows breath.
And as they swiftly die a fiery death,
they give life to steel in fire’s light.

Smaller hammers and gentle taps,
set the edge along the line.
and form becomes the thing so fine,
set in place by careful loving raps.

Spark dancers whirl on anvil’s top,
and crashing slips to ringing tones.
As softer now we near the stage to hone,
and let the loosened steel filings drop.

Long strokes set the edge so thin
a gleaming point along the line
and patience now must be so fine,
for the hardest part is yet to come again.

Once more into the well watched fire,
for temper is a fleeting thing at best
and only loving patience rewards the test
before we can know the thing we’ve sired.

Fitting the hilt and binding it well,
making the scabbard house with loving care.
Polishing the bright blade with lime dust fair,
and remembering the purpose fell.

It dances on the morning sun,
gleaming with a life all its own.
And it makes a chilling moan,
kissing the wind in hissing run.

A warrior’s soul, the maker’s too,
dedication in this highest art.
And only you know the hidden part,
taking part of you as it needs must do.

Where has it finally gone,
far from the birthing forge and coals.
Serving with honor for him and you, its toll,
will it return one day, some distant dawn?