The Blade-Makers

Take a walk
before sunrise
before the Capitol Centre

and you might hear them on the Flats –

the slow chip, chip, chip
of hammerstones
striking flint.

This is the sound of patience.

This is not Christmas shopping
nor is it factory or industry.

They are not pigmies or elves.
They are our ancestors –

a father teaching his son,
three brothers in competition,
a broad-shouldered woman
honing her blade alone.

Sometimes they sit in a circle.

Sometimes they sing a song
that sounds like blackbirds at dawn
in words we half-remember

that have been cut away by sharp edges.

When we refer to their ‘cutting edge technology’

they are gone and we are left standing amongst
the Smartphones, the Hotpoint dishwashers,
the tough shockproof waterproof
freezeproof cameras

that will likely break
within a year let alone survive 10, 000 years…

One thought on “The Blade-Makers

  1. Greg Hill says:

    Imaginatively transporting back to the mesolithic in a shopping centre is quite some feat!

    I tried imagining myself in the abbey where the Black Book of Carmarthen was written while standing on its site in the ‘Friary’ shopping centre in that town (which looks much like your shopping centre pic) but no scratches of quill on parchment could I conjure.

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