This poem was published in the Anvils Ring back in the 1980's. I keep a copy of it tacked up on the wall in my shop.
Under the spreading sheet metal roof
(Chestnuts died out of a blight in '31)
The outcast smithy stands
His clothes are black and sooty
For that's where he wipes his hands.
His creativity stiffled,
History drowned in future's pool
His neighbors' complaints are rifled
At the pounding of this fool.
The ringing of the anvil
Echos it's past to all,
But petitions from the present
Brings the ringing of the law.
The noise they say just wrecks their nerves.
Our ears they ring in pain.
The smoke clouds up the neighborhood.
The coal dust ...acid rain.
What is this fool, a pilgrim?
Someone arrived too late?
Who dreams of handmade follies,
And good things are worth the wait.
Whose bellows gasp for one last breath
to forge it's form, it's art,
Just a crusty old smithy
In a 20th century heart.
By Mike Haun