Temper

Temper seethed through the Blacksmiths’ teeth

Gritted on edge, growling, hammer hands fell

Absent-minded, changing focus, forms and flow

water caught the light, flaunting white hot glow.

He refrained to vent, feelings that were pent,

But bent shards of metals like wind might petals

Blotting his hand across, a beaded sweat gloss

Blade emerged from steel, for a matching shield.

That working and working for hour, after hour;

His temper forged forms of protection, and power.

By Paul David B