Friday, 14 September 2012

The sword in the stone.

Blood veined stone, hewn from chthonic realm, glows and iridescent sparks of promise adorned, callused hands and damp brow gaze upon, turning, inspecting, this gift of earth.

She is born.

This Forge of clay, the flames of inspiration dance within, as this melting, smelting womb of transformation ignites, it is though one of the chosen has captured the sun.

She burns.

Heat Intense below the acrid smoke, tears at the lungs and scorches the skin, broken she is placed within, black fuel and the gasping, wheezing breath of man.

She breathes.

Bellowed wind, forced in to this hell through a mouth Iron born as she, the crack of the whip, and screaming release, this heart of clay beats once more, no flames of desire only doom for the flesh, hope for the ploughman and the warriors arm.

She feels.

The serpent she comes, emerging tentatively at first, feeling her way, beneath and beyond Vulcan's mound, slowly to begin then a rush forward into the world, she scorches all she touches, steam consigned to the void, sand becomes glass upon her demon touch, she journeys forth then.

She waits.

Hammers fall, a cacophony, a symphony, a riot of sound, the tap tap tap of the blacksmith's tune, the cling clang clattering music of steel upon steel, woodsmoke and sweat fill the air, and that gentle gasp of wonder, of all those who would hope to take her for their own.

She is shaped.

Water's sweet kiss and the rasp of stone, razor sharp edge reflected moon born anew striding among the ancestor souls, held up to the morning sun and kissed by her touch.

She lives.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

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