My grandfathers sword.

this is a very short piece which i wrote when my grandmother in france presented me with my grandfathers military ww2 sword, he was an amazing man, and it was a huge honour to call that piece of family history my own.

hope you like it.

My Grandfathers sword.


Downstairs in a cupboard under the stairs lies a sword.
A beautiful weapon... light, perfectly balanced and well crafted.
The sword of an officer.
My grandfathers sword.

It never did anybody any harm, for even in defence my grandfather would disarm his enemy with reason and charm, but that cold steel echoes the same song as every weapon of war.
The slow song of potential.
In other hands that blade could have slashed flesh, cut throats, killed animals and men alike. there are millions of "could have beens" that you can attach to a weapon like that.
A hundred movie stars who could wield it in a climactic scene. A thousand men who could defend their families from some unrelenting yet unseen danger with the blade. A million who would rather resort to the sword than anything else. Few who resorted to anything else.
Even fewer who resorted to any other option with the weight of that cutting edge at their side.

When i open my eyes to the morning sun, i think about that sword.
The weight of potential that it carries in its very essence and how we, as people are exactly the same.
In the place of a sharp shining blade, we have fists, feet and well trained minds.
In the place of a scabbard, we have the defences we put up on a day to day, shielding us from the hazards of emotion and truth.
In the place of the grip lies our human self control. our conscience, like a guiding hand wrapped around us, showing which direction to take.

We all have the same potential, to do great and terrible things by the obvious brutal measure, or to resort to the anything else.
anything else at all.