Traveller, can you read the runes
Patterned all along my length
Steel is my blade, my haft, my heart
Tempered in Wayland's forge my strength.
Turned on the anvil cold and hard
Beaten with hammers, sharpened with stone
Polished with ashes, set with gems
For the once and future king alone,
Lovingly wrapped in fine white linen
Laid on the altar of Mithras, Lord,
Spellbound in time by Merlin's power
'Til Arthur claimed me as his sword.
Throughout his life in his strong hand I burned,
But on his death to water I returned.
By Ann Jones (my mum, in memorium)