The Yarn Addict

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.

Ode to the Begonia

Last summer I had a crush on a plant.

My Dad planted the most beautiful begonia in a blue terracotta pot and it sat proudly on the doorstep all summer.

It was rich, yellow, full and I adored it. When I was in the garden I could never stop staring at it. There are always many flowers in our garden but my eyes were always drawn back to the begonia.

I loved that plant so much that when it did finally start to wilt I was moved out of sadness to write a poem. It was the first poem I had written since my early teens.

Pale yellow and voluptuous in the clean morning light,
Petals bursting from your silken coral dressing gown,
Heads bowed humbly, oblivious to your own beauty,
Always waiting with a warm smile.

You. Yellow, silky, laughing and dancing
For the rest of the garden flowers,
For the reluctant sun,
For the frisky wind,
For a besotted me.

Is is your image I have framed and hung,
Pride of place in my mind,
For the coming of the black and white winter.

I don't even know where the poem came from after so many dormant years. It just bubbled up out of nowhere and was hurridly transferred to a scrap of paper.

Later when I reread the poem I couldn't relate to the 'me' who had written it- I don't write poetry anymore. I am poetic but I'm not a poet.

When my car broke a similar situation occured. During the tears on my last drive home, words began to form alliances, sentences were built. I had a poem in a raw form. When I got home, I got caught up in other things and the poem was gone. I couldn't even recall one line of the poem which had so perfectly captured my feelings at losing my first car.

Perhaps there is a poet in me...but where does he hide? And why does he come so infrequently?

Some more photos of the begonia:

A Rant - Using a Thesaurus Does Not Make You a Good Writer

Browsing through some of the blogs on here, I've noticed that a large number of people wrongly believe that the greater number of long, obscure words you use, the better your writing. I've had to wade through much dull verbosity just to reach the centre of the meaning in a handful of particularly guilty blogs. Are there bloggers that really open a thesaurus and deliberately pick the longest, most esoteric word thinking it improves their writing? Do they really believe it makes them sound more clever? I'm certainly no writer but I do recognise that being able to convey your thoughts with light, concise prose is a far greater skill than dusting off uncommon or archaic words for use.

(I feel better now)