The Ballad of the Patchwork Quilter

Come listen and I’ll tell you

Of the quilter with no name

She lived a humble life indeed

And never found her fame

 

She sewed these quilts together

With her needle and her thread

And as she worked so deftly

Her poor old fingers bled

 

She never had much money

And barely bread to eat

She’d sit by light of candles

With the patchwork at her feet

 

She sought out people’s stories

And she travelled far and wide

To immortalise their tales

In her patchwork stitched with pride

 

Wherever she would venture

The people they would say

‘But what’s your story, maiden?

What part is it you play?’

 

But the quilter she stayed silent

And continued in her task

She enshrined their lives in patchwork

As she wore her patchwork mask

In every town and village

On every road and trail

The children gathered round her

Singing ‘tell us, what’s your tale?’

 

And the quilter, she grew older

And her raven hair turned grey

And her fingers they grew slower

With the passing of the day

 

And the people they grew colder

‘til with every passing town

She found the people’s faces changed

With lips all buttoned down

 

She reached her final resting place

Where she found herself a spot

And her bony hands began to work

It seemed they wouldn’t stop

 

And one of these suspicious men

Had spied her when she came

And of course he’d never heard of her

This quilter with no name

 

‘And what is it you want here?

What is it you do?

What good are all these stories

When there’s nothing left for you?’

 

 

The quilter, as she quilted,

Stared at this man so tall

Her piercing gaze befell him

And made him feel quite small

 

‘This here is my story’

Said the quilter with no name

‘to be a story weaver

has been my only aim.’

 

And as she spoke she smiled

With the patchwork in her hand

These final words she’d spoken

Were repeated ‘cross the land.