Morning Crafts

He paces in the morning
In the wee hours, before the sun peeks its head
Takes a long draught of inspiration
And lays his fingers upon his implement.

What spark will awaken this time?
What avenue will be explored?
From this seat,
What will be born?

Fingers flick, precise and swift
In the dark, this doesn’t look like much.
It’s mundane mettle these days.

Take another pull of freshly brewed inspiration
Watch the steam rise from the mug
Hear the tip-tapping of execution

Then wait and see
As the craftsman builds an empire
And the sun peeks its head
Pixel by pixel.

All poems Hammer