However delicate this filigree
this silver, iron or gold –
however fine and beautiful this glass,
its colours making sunlight speak –
however fleet and bright this flute
edging silver in sibilant song –
you shall not see or feel the fire,
the furnace finding them from stone.
Their faces and voices all felt fair,
warm in a way their cold touch cannot tell
set from white heat, bled to life,
beaten, drawn and mastered
into taut treasures that tell
stories, songs and longings
of long, long ago. Ore and wonder
as old as their ancestral home.
Trauma and high energy are
the price of simple things
the rocks that make our hills,
crumbled, melted into light.
2011 © Andie Davidson
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