A VANISHING TRADE

There is an old smithy in our little village still
watching him work, with steel, fire, a boyhood thrill
in corner, from through of water, steam rising, iron cools
the walls, displaying , in some sort of order, various tools

Pieces of iron glowing, almost white hot, in forge fire
a young lad, pumping a set of bellows, never seems to tire
upon anvil, smithy places white hot iron, sounds of striking hammer
this is a job for muscled man, with plenty of sweat, very little glamour

A horse stands near door patiently, in some sort of shade
the smithy busily shaping it's iron shoes, custom made
in leather apron, cap upon his head, a big knife, rasp
shaping horse's hoof, a bit here, a bit there, absorbed in task.

Clouds of acrid smoke when fitting hot shoe on hoof
horse somewhat looks bemused, what's it thinking, aloof
the work is slow, can't be hurried, it's only just begun
there is not one horse, but three more, finally one done.

The last nail is hammered into hoof, released, next in its place
if horses could talk, walking away with a big smile on its face?
the smithy rummaging in fire, next one on anvil, heating forge
hammering and shaping shoes for yet another horse

majority of horse shoes now, unfortunately, mass produced overseas
wiping out that most noble and ancient craft of smithies
it is a sad fact that to see a smithy in this modern day and age
you'll only see them now in an environmental tourist village.