The Harp and the Hammer

The Harp and the Hammer

The points of his heart are as chiseled and hardened as the iron he shapes,
Save one untouched corner that he shelters from the world in its entirety.
Under the slanted roof of his open air shop, he works a bit of his soul into
Each piece with the sweat that drops from his brow onto the fevered metal.
His life is marked by a wretched reminder of his careless youthful valor that
Runs from the left side of his crooked nose nearly reaching the angle of his jaw.
The true-bloods and peasants alike come to his end of the lane, seeking out
Simple yet sturdy brackets and hinges or even the strongest sword in the land.
Their coin is more than sufficient to support his invisible existence here so he
Stores the remnants of his wage in a small clay pot awaiting Saturday morn.
It is then that he mounts his weathered horse and rides to the neighboring village.
His only need is to see her there perched between the leather shop and a trio of fools
Who perform their silent folly incessantly, hoping for a flash of silver at their feet.
The whisper-soft strain of her harp releases a beauty only bested by the lovely
Line of her neck that is visible when the wind lifts and scatters her flaxen hair.
The sight of her unnerves him, and she turns her face away each time he makes
An approach and initiates a meaningless conversation with the aging tanner nearby.
His heart jumps slightly at her proximity before hardening a bit more, knowing
That his less than appealing visage must cause her to retreat in certain disgust.

She waits the whole of three hours idly strumming at the strings until her fingers
Protest with weariness, hoping that the owner of that deeply silken voice will materialize.
Market day has regained her favor since his first weekly arrival, and the antics
Of the village children once again bring her joy instead of her usual bored aggravation.
She recognizes his tone as he belts out a greeting to old Walton behind her, and
Suppresses a giggle or two as he clumsily gives a report of the past week's patrons.
Not quite brave enough to turn and face him, she instead lets the fantasy of their
Belated introduction play out in her mind. The meter of his words entrances her,
And his scent makes it all too easy to inhale the stagnant air of the crowded square.
If only. If only she hadn't been accursed and damned to a life of blighted vision, she
Might have held her head at a more flattering angle and found the courage to speak.

Copyright Tina Jordan 2017 All Rights Reserved