Spear

In the hush of dawn the warrior lifts his spear,
A slender shaft tipped with keen-edged steel,
Wood grown from ancient oak, now hardened by fire,
Each grain a story of battles past, of honour sealed.

He thrusts it forward, a silver flash against the mist,
The point sings a low hymn as it parts the air,
A promise of defence, a whisper of the hunt,
Balanced between the grip of hand and the heart's fierce prayer.

When the clash comes, the spear becomes a wall,
A forest of points that shield the weary line,
Its length a measure of courage, its tip a steadfast call,
Echoing through the ages, in steel and oak entwined.

Now resting beside the hearth, the spear waits,
Its purpose quiet, yet ever ready—
A symbol of resolve, of strength that cannot fade,
In British fields and dreams, it steadies, stead.