This little sharp thing was once a knife

That traded more hands than some would admit

For it was not a gift, but an obligation

For those deemed fit.

The first was plucked like any living thing is

Before their time, and delivered to the mud

For those who only saw the bottom line,

Like gods with their great floods.

The blade sank into the bitter earth

Where it dulled and diminished

Waiting for another

To see its story finished.

Searchers in the dark pulled it up,

Iron root and all

Under moonlight they read the words

Written as a homeward call.

The relic was borne on waves and wind

Beyond high cliffs and low towns

To the weeping woman at her door,

Another victim of the crown.

Grief tidied the heirloom away,

Secreted amongst her dusted memory

Shielded from light and touch,

A nameless accessory.

Walls built up around it and the shadow grew

Longer than the years it had been carried,

And darker than the hearts it had touched

Until two young lovers married.

The house shifted and changed shape,

Then the walls came down and it was found

By one who saw it for what it was,

Something to which they were bound.

A simple thing after all

A letter opener by all means

Except for an inscription

Of which this could be seen

'To be held, to be kept

to defend, to protect'.