My Necklace

As cold as the Arctic,
yet warm like coal
I rarely even wear it,
it hangs on a curtain pole
As hard a loft,
yet makes me feel soft
Beaten and shaped,
on a long pole it drapes
Its string made of leather,
looks like it’s under the weather
Cold, hard and protecting,
yet happy and affecting
Weird things on its string,
like two square tiny rings
Made by my Grandfather,
something nobody could alter
For he is a blacksmith,
his tools not to be played with
And so ends this poem,
say ‘hi’ to my Pop if you know him.