The Burning Mountain

Out in the arid sun, a high
Mound of cracked red clay-
The burning mountain- stood tall.
Half a mile up the jagged slope
A lean-to staggered in the heat.
Under a sheet metal roof,
Two gloved hands and a
Sweaty, furrowed brow
Gazed into the embers.
He was dirty and sullen,
Dirty even for a smithy, with
Arms bare to the shoulder
Moving with careful, practiced
Precision. He pushed the
Reddened coke out into
The center of the
Gathering inferno;
There was still some
Work to be done.

A fine dust of soot
Coated the iron tools
And the dancing flicker of
The fire breathing to life
Gave the smith’s smoky hair
An eerie tinge of crimson.
When the long metal rod
Was a glaring white, he
Clutched at it with rusted pliers
And couldn’t help but grin as the
Plume of steam reached up
From the slack, the metal
Bubbling the surface of
The brackish water
Like the devil’s bath.

This one long ingot
Would soon become two
Polished pieces:
Two twin rings
With no adornments
Meant for a life apart
In every sense of the word.

MSBQ

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