Seamus Heaney(b. 1939)
The Forge
All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the h a m m e r e d anvil's short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss w h e n a new shoe toughens in water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end square,
Set there immoveable: an altar
W h e r e he expends himself in shape and music,
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
T h e n grunts and goes in, with a slam and flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.