It takes an ardent attention to detail to make something from that that iron they bring in from the bogs. Half slag at best, many other smiths would throw it away. But it calls to be made pure. Continue reading “Rough to refined.”
Never has there been before or since that dream of mine, a face or life worth following to the hells of oblivion and beyond. Continue reading “A march.”
The crashing hit of axe on wood sounds as I split them this way and that. A sound which fills me with such joy to know what comes. Placing wood on wood to set it where I will, and down comes the crash to split and shatter again. Continue reading “Splitting logs.”
The ring and hum of the thundering applause brings smiles to this face of mine. Where I go, the audience follows, my journeys of years taking place in moments in market squares across the lands. Continue reading “A dream of applause.”
From beneath the leaves and twigs of the year gone by they come. Heralded by the fleeting snows and rising sun, nourished by rain and breeze alike, they emerge from the ground below. Continue reading “The shoots.”
