The anvil’s thud

To talk of the anvil, doing what? Doing thud thud
thud, and then what? Forging metal. And then
what? Form formed, so? Where was the anvil when

The leaf had escaped and the dewdrop slid off into
grime to be contained by no one, owned by no
body? Yes the anvil is a fine bit of metal, sturdy

As they come. But its timing is off. By aeons,
measured off by beat, by metre, by a lost
rhythm only the salt of the sea can remember.

Rhythm is not soothed by invoking the fury
of god while pounding thud thud thud on an
anvil. That is just dumb. When did god ever

Respond to such an inane calling? The anvil
must now rest in the corner – or if you prefer –
at the centre, but rest it must, inert as thud.

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