by tinethewordsmith

Image result for blacksmithing


she’s an anvil

with every

pound of

his hammer a

strength is added

and her love is

a furnace

her little

ones smith

their dreams

on to her dress

her lids

her fingers


they think

they could get

rid of her

run away

never look back

little did

they know

axes and swords

even those

with golden hilts

rust without

their mother



2 Comments to “Mother”

  1. Nice poem Tine, can you give a link for the photo please.

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