It Was A Pilgrimage Of Sorts Poem by Mark Heathcote

On her knees, she would focus all her attention.
She would solitarily sow all day.
It was a pilgrimage of sorts; only one was chosen.
Each needle thread is a strained prayer.
It was her toil, her daily work.
It was as if she were in the dock, quietly pleading.
There was an eerie covenant of silence.
There is no judgement. But an eternal life sentence.
You sow what you reap, it is said.
But all she did was work on her needle and thread.
For suckers until she was near death.
Her last vestiges of hope were getting smallpox
or the Black Death; the Workhouse
was a bed of rats, a bed of iniquity.
But she remained honest and pure.
The face of dignity and optimism forever more.