Joe The Quilt-Maker - Richard Dawson

A lonely cottage on the mound

A century’s work of

Stood trembling and quiet

Until it was acquired

By canny Joe the quilt-maker

He fenced in a patch of land

As from the stroke of a magic wand

A garden

Sprung forth

From the hand of Joe the quilt-maker

His cot secure, his flowerbeds neat

Glad were his neighbours all to meet

And chew the fat

And to swallow the coffee

Of kindly Joe the quilt-maker

Of each he had some good to say

Some friendly token to display

And seldom few people

Could cheer a winter’s day

Like gregarious Joe the quilt-maker

Beloved by all even the

Great

And at the dinner table

Sometimes they set a plate

For respected Joe the quilt-maker

His quilts with country fame were crowned

Superbly sewn and dotted around

With pretty little figures

And in flight

Most ingenious Joe the quilt-maker

His wife was sick bedridden and old

To ease her pain he spent he sold

Oh there was never bought

Not for silver or for gold

Such love as Joe the quilt-maker

From dawn til dusk he tenderly nursed

The poor old hag grew worse and worse

And soon

She was lifted to a hearse

By heartbroken Joe the quilt-maker

Lost in widowhood’s embrace

All hope had flown without a trace

The home they’d made

Soon become a cage

For enfeebled Joe the quilt-maker

But there were friends who cheered his days

Both coin and food they strove to raise

And there was always some kind soul

Dropping in to say

Afternoon to Joe the quilt-maker

The days and months and years rolled by

The scales were lifted from his eyes

The ground beneath his feet and the

Colour in his cheeks

Were restored to Joe the quilt-maker

Not seeing past the end of his nose

Back to the needle he nimbly goed

In several of the taverns

We raised a cup of ale

To courageous Joe the quilt-maker

Often in his solitary

Through spectacles and godly verse

A mirror made of paper

Would stare at the reflection

Of pious Joe the quilt-maker

And first he Autumn of his days

In quiet contemplation

Except when he would welcome

A wandering stranger

Most hospitable Joe the quilt-maker

From which dark source it cannot be said

Somehow the bogus rumour spread

That never in Hexham

There’d been a richer man

Than impoverished Joe the quilt-maker

Strolling round the market square

A smiling pilgrim unaware

The devil’s in the doorway

Of the old hall

With his eyes fixed on the doomed quilt-maker

I found a pair of clogs in the lane

Some drops of blood where they had lain

And following the breadcrumbs

I came upon the dreadful

Remains of Joe the quilt-maker

It must have been a number of days

The fat black flies were on his face

I fainted in a flowerbed

And threw up on the bright yellow

Poppies of Joe the quilt-maker

Judging from the wounds on his hands

It’s fair to assume a most valiant stand

Was met by his assailants

And fought out to the very last breath

Of Joe the quilt-maker

It’s thought they numbered two or three

The evidence was plain to see

And a garden hose sticky with the

Grey hair of Joe the quilt-maker

Despite a hundred Guinea reward

The culprits have remained uncaught

And nobody is looking

Each other in the eyes

At the funeral of Joe the quilt-maker

And now that night is drawing in

I pull the quilt up to my chin

And listen to the trees outside

Creaking in the wind

A song for Joe the quilt-maker