Wayland the Smith
He moved into cars.
It was inevitable
with no more ploughs to mend
or horses left with a silver penny
for a special overnight job.
There was still a bit of welding
you know, axles and stuff
though he had oxy to do it now
bright but soulless
and anyway all you can get these days is mild steel
not the real wrought stuff
its sinews strong with glassy slag –
so what’s the point?
And empty days he manned the single one-armed pump
snuffed up petrol fumes
to clear his head.
Still hobbled
from that old wound to his hamstrings.
But he managed. Folk admired him.
The youngsters thought he was a
character.
He died, I think.
Sally Douglas lives in Devon, UK. She has been published in various journals, including The Rialto, Ambit and Envoi. Her collection Candling the Eggs is published by Cinnamon Press. She blogs very intermittently at http://sallydouglas.blogspot.co.uk where a selection of her poetry, including extracts from the book, can be found. Twitter : @SallyDPoet