My shape has changed over the years,
Countless times until I found mine.
I have been an axe - dull yet deadly.
I have been a gust in the wind,
I have been the darkest of nights.
I have been a voice among a crowd,
I have been the rat among the harvest.
I have been the frost in the winter.
I have been the glow of the hearth.
For four long summers - hot and warm,
A bushel of golden wheat on a farm.
I have been a wren in the branches,
I have been a salmon in the waters:
I have been courage in the warrior’s heart.
I have been the fear in the enemy’s own;
I have been a sword gripped in the hand
I have been a shield splintered at war.
I have been a string in a harp,
Disguised for nine springs,
The golden crown of the kings.
I have been iron in the stone,
I have been coal in the flames.
I have been sweat on the brow,
I have been tears down the cheeks.
I have been oaks in the orchards,
I have been ash on the slopes.
I have been acorns in the ground.
For fifty autumns - achingly long,
The oxen so proud and strong.
I have been the horse at the plough,
I have been the sheep in the field.
I have been the cow for the milking,
I have been a chicken for the pot.
I have been a mouse fleeing danger,
I have been a cat hunting myself.
I have been the table for serving dinner.
For a single winter - cold and harsh,
A sapling struggling in the marsh.
Finally now have I found it,
This final form to call mine.
A man it is, who holds this spirit,
My only predator being time.
Painting; The Bard, Thomas Jones
