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Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #2131222
A poem for poets.
The Wordsmith.

It may have been the ringing anvil,
I know naught what brought me there.
Perhaps the hammer's steady rhythm
or the lilt upon the air.

But there I stood upon the threshold
of the wordsmith's tiny shop.
Wattle, Dawb and Thatch it were
with chimneys on the top.

A sign above the lintel hung
that cast my face a smile.
Read "Poems written while you wait,
though you may have to wait awhile."

My hand upon the knob,
I eased aside the door.
The view inside the tiny room
most filled my mind with awe.

For there worked the finest wordsmith,
in one hand a pair of tongs.
Around the walls unfinished sonnets,
poems ,hymns 'n' songs.

A hammer in his other hand
looked strangely like a quill.
The piece he wrought upon the anvil
seemed to sing and rhyme at will.

The sparks that showered cross the room
would glow and wane, and yet.
Were they merely sparks
or letters of the alphabet.

I thanked the wordsmith for his council,
though he'd uttered not a sound.
As I gathered up my kit,
toward the door I turned around.

Then suddenly there tolled a bell,
I woke and I could see.
The bell was my alarm clock,
ringing to awaken me.

I lay there as the dream
began to fade like drifting sand.
But from where had come this ancient quill
I held there in my hand.

With that very quill I scrawled these words,
truer now than then.
But had I really met the wordsmith,
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