Back in the yard where shadows gently stretch,
Four in shirtsleeves gather for their craft.
Iron in hand, earth beneath their feet,
Each breath steady, each gaze sharp and true.
One, with a steady hand, eyes the peg,
Hoists the iron high, lets it glide and fall—
A clang, the echo of old iron\'s song,
Rings out as though the earth itself had sung.
First toss astray, it rattles, wanders wide,
But he, undeterred, lifts his face again,
With focus firm, he swings and lets it fly,
Iron finds its home, wraps the peg like kin.
A shout of triumph, a murmur of defeat,
The yard alive with the pulse of the game.