Tissue paper falls away to reveal gun metal silver, hand dyed in Wales,
"Songs and Sonnets" is its name, poetry disguised as the silkiest of yarns.
At the back of a souvenir shop in Vik, walls of Icelandic sheep wool, Alafoss,
Fuzzy, rugged and beautiful, fed by lava grass, blueberry flowers and Icelandic rain.
A parcel of azure blue mohair, imported from Turkey,
A wound ball of Mediterranean sky in my bedroom.
Cabaret, gratefully received in a birthday bag, frivolously sparkly and purple,
waiting for a chance to be the star of a pattern.
Guiltily purchased Debbie Bliss, elegant, antique rose cashmere
Expecting to become lacy mittens fit for a Victorian Lady.
Nutmeg from Spain, now "discontinued". Candyfloss soft and glints of gold
Happily rehomed in a crochet addict's bedroom in England.
Skye wool, multi-coloured and soft. Rainy skies, heather and a castle
of a Scottish holiday an age ago remembered.
Down to earth acrylics, in cheerful pink and brash red.
Indispensible and cheap, a yarn junkie's affordable fix.
I touch and admire the balls laid out in their careful exhibition,
I see a spring scarf and graceful mittens,
a useful cream bowl, a lacy shawl,
A Ravenclaw book cover and a chubby teddy bear
A ribboned hat and a hot pink corsage to brighten my day.
Stitch by stitch,
Brought to life by me, their creator.