Forge of War

In an atmosphere
Of coal-fired humid heat
The blacksmith plies his ancient craft.
Morning light diffuses mist-like
In drifting smoke that has escaped the flue.

No medieval village croft is this
Nor yet some rural English scene:
It is instead a forge of war
In an age of mechanised hostility.

A hoof is lifted and hammer struck
Making fast its leaden shoe
Whose track will cross this land
With others of its kind
To mark the passage of our troubled time.