Born Again in Steel

1587-10-22
Road out of Mulecrest

The lute is cracked along the rim. It will sing still, but not the same. I held the splinter to the light and thought of the dockhand’s eyes when the knife missed. Purpose returned like breath after a plunge.

At the smith’s cart I bought a waster. Oak, blunt, balanced, honest. It sits in my hand like a promise. The first cuts are clumsy. The shoulders complain. The road answers with dust.

I walked past the gates at dawn. Fog held the fields and the river kept its own time. I counted steps and set the blade moving with them. Down from the shoulder. Recover. Guard. Again. The rhythm takes. The mind quiets.

Songs were my trade. They remain. But the body needs a new verse and it will be written in practice. If I am to be heard, I must first learn to listen to weight and line. Today I begin.