Iron Wrought, the blacksmith furnished
Hammer blows formed soft iron bars
A twist of tongs
A curl is formed
The smith’s sweat sizzles on the hot metal as he labors over the forge. His hands cramp and his arms grow weary, bit still he hammers down. Blow after blow he dispenses
Untill finally his piece is finished, and into the brine it is thrust, singing, sizzling and steaming as it becomes entrapped in it’s final form. The iron hardens, and becomes a solid mass.
This iron now stands, enameled in years of paint, entrenched on the borders on an estate. Constantly guarding, in solidarity, the lavish wealth beyond it’s ornamented bars.
Somehow, the spirit of the smith is guarding too, his watchful gaze and careful eye meticulously observing every event that transpires beyond the border he described so many years ago. The salt of his sweat and the iron in his veins made him one with the border he had so carefully designed. I wonder if he is watching still as I carefully examine the seams and joints, tenons and rivets which bind together, to this day, the bars standing before me.