The Blacksmith Shop            This village had a smithy, The kind we know no more! No town could hope to prosper Without such shop—before. It stood beneath a cherry tree The twigs all pink with flowers, And little boys played ‘round the door In summer’s leisure hours. The dust was warm between their toes So happy were their faces! They heard the blacksmith’s hammer clang When mending wheels and braces. The flames were blue, as tempered steel Was bent to shape the plowshare; No brawny man was white of hands Or face—who toiled and sweat there! The stallion at the hitching post Was snorting in his traces, As fillies neighed and mares delayed Their nibbling at the daisies. Sweet lassies flipped long, swishy skirts, And furtive glances cast; The farmhand hauling milk or grain Called loudly as he passed. The windy bellows blew again, The forge was filled with smoking; This crafty toil, the anvil’s ring, Would stop all talk and joking. Ah! Buggies’ happy days are past, Most horses prance in pastures. Machines today speed up our pace— Of autos are we the masters? The corner signs say “Gasoline” And city buildings tower, As even Grandpa, nowadays, Can scarce recall the hours— He stood beside the village shop And sucked on cherries sweet, While covering up his ears from noise, As loud the hammer beat.                                                       © Ruth Ahola      Awarded first place in senior division, Washougal Community Library Poetry Competition, 2002. Published in Veljeysviesti.