'A man who works with his hands is a laborer. A man who works with his
hands and his brain is a craftsman. A man who works with his hands, brains,
and heart is an artist.'
Louis Nizer

The base materials, dense, drip oil from his rack.
Some solid as consonants, others hollow as vowels,
enticing manipulation over the anvil's back,
or desiring to be smoothly rolled during an intimate hour.

Our artist, though, must delay such sensuous delights
and study the drawings, purpose, structure of his work.
Once all is measured, marked, its ghost in sight,
the rack then offers sacrifices for the birth.

A metre is mitred with the precision of a Mec Brown's blade.
Hollows, solids fused for a crude blank frame.
Ornamental finials stand proud on the palisade,
and decorative scrolls within - a steel refrain.

Now all that's left for him is to fettle the welds -
steadily, mercilessly polishing all as smooth
as the ringing of belted metal, as caramel,
as the mythical honey trickled into the ear by the muse.