Quilt

A Quilt's Lullaby

In the quiet of the drawing‑room, beneath the moon‑lit pane,
A grandmother’s quilt breathes stories, stitched in autumn’s grain.
Each patch a little chapter, a secret in its seam,
Colours mingle—scarlet, navy, emerald—like a woodland dream.

The wool of the north, the linen from the far‑off north,
Interwoven like the seasons, a tapestry of worth.
Through every fastener, a memory’s gentle hum,
A field of daisies, a shy meadow, a childhood to come.

The stitching whispers tales of holidays in the tea‑room,
With scones steaming, the kettle singing, steam’s soft plume.
A recipe for love, a pattern woven by hand,
Every thread a promise, kindness stitched across the land.

When evenings grow a shadow, and the night air grows colder,
I curl beneath the quilt, where love’s old needle's holder.
Its folds hold warmth, its fibres echo a gentle chime,
A quiet heartbeat, tender, humming in each brinely rhyme.