The whole shed smelt of dead iron:
the dented teeth of a harrow,
the feminine pathos of donkeys’ shoes.
A labourer backed in a Clydesdale.
Hugely fretful, its nostrils dilated
while the smith viced a hoof
in his apron, wrestling it
to calmness, as he sheared the pith
like wood-chips, to a rough circle.
Then the bellows sang in the tall chimney
waking the sleeping metal, to leap
on the anvil. As I was slowly
beaten to a matching curve
the walls echoed the stress
of the verb to forge.
A Chosen Light (1967)