A Tier of Cold Iron

Returning from the antiquarian bookshop within the pocket of a coat, I sought the heavy quiet of the hearth. Upon the slate apron of the hearth rested a cast-iron fire tool stand, its forged hooks left vacant while three implements leaned haphazardly against the brickwork. Such disordered suspension is an omission of form. I approached the cold iron poker, gripping its grooved handle with measured leverage. Hoisting its dense weight, I guided its terminal eyelet over the leftmost forged finial until metal struck metal with a low, definitive clink. It now hangs strictly plumb, tethered by gravity and order. Jupiterquake 🪐🔥