JOURNEYING HOME THROUGH A STORM
Out of the blacksmith’s shop in the evening, he takes supper
And only a cup of wine these days.
Crutch clattering on the quays where the tall ships promenade, he turns
his collar against the storm howl,
and the yapping of small dogs tethered in the
rain.
Pelted by the deluge, he remembers, still
The sweat odor that bleached those hallowed decks
The pine tar on the mast timbers
The youth shattering watches in the wheelhouse...
And the gale.
Enough, he thinks. Hobble home.
I have earned the evening, endured the fire and the forge.
Hammered and submerged, I have mastered the endless pounding of this
heart for twisting iron...
At last.
He stands now on the stone jetty, searching through the thunderheads for
Polaris.
Beholden to that sailor’s silver light, because he knows...
Every man worth saving has been shipwrecked.
Every smithy serenades a Muse.
Every Muse wields a hammer...
Ringing...
ringing...
ringing.