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Bert the blacksmith tends his coals
In hobnail boots with leather soles;
Oxhide apron draped around
This portly figure, forearms browned.
Red in face with hair of grey,
Shaping iron to earn his pay;
Hammering, striking all day long,
Beating metal straight and strong.
Bert the blacksmith mops his brow
His body starts to swelter now;
Perspiration flowing free,
Reminds him of his mug of tea.
He pops his kettle on his fire
Scalding water to acquire;
Soon the whistle shrills its blow
Upon a crimson hearth aglow.
Bert the blacksmith takes a rest
He swabs the ashes off his chest;
On a cask he sits at ease
Dining on his bread and cheese.
He sups his brew and toils again
His hefty anvil takes the strain
Forming horseshoes round the bick
Punching nail holes good and quick.
Bert the blacksmith shoe's a mare,
A mighty dray horse, fair and square;
Taking care with every nail
That she may haul her cart of ale.
The drayman pays a crisp ten bob
As Bert has done a sterling job;
The drayman thanks him for his willing,
Bids farewell and tips a shilling.
Bert the blacksmith's forge dies down,
Dusk is settling on the town;
Reflecting on the night ahead...
Bert is thinking of his bed.
A voice is calling from the house
He pays attention to his spouse;
"Albert, dear, your supper's due" ...
Bert the blacksmith's day is through.
About this poem
A tale about an English village blacksmith from 1991
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"Bert The Blacksmith" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 25 Sep. 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/105278/bert-the-blacksmith>.