Joseph William Colp
My great-grandfather Joseph was
My great-grandfather Joseph was
a maker of cowbells
In the old blacksmith shop
at the foot of the homestead hill
fierce fire blazing in his forge
iron hammer
firm and steady hand
Sharp and clear
their clappers sang
as the gentle beasts bent
to chew dry pasture
Or swill a bellyful from
the rich brown brook
Until the day driving
home from Hemford
with his horse and wagon
he heard his own harsh music
hung on the neck
of a Crouse cow
Hacked it off
Brought it home
Claimed his own
On a cold winter Sunday at 73
Set at table
Spilled coins
his week’s labour
from a leather pouch
Dropped dead
Leaves his wife Lavinia
(she who leaves letters for witches)
His grandson – the third Joseph – just 3
By a quirk of fate
finds his home
next to the fence
among Baker Settlement
pioneer stones
Decades later
that bell found its own path
An offering planted
by a gentle hand
in the soft earth
of Italy’s Moro River
Rests forever in the grave
of grandson Joseph
All of them finally home.
