There it is, big ball of knitting which steadily diminished in size over however many weeks it took to get through it (knitting pride means I can’t admit it took five). It is Sarah Grace Logan who began this path of trying to knit a scarf. She had these incredibly well laid knitting plans that I latched onto like a knitting bug. I knitted on the train to London, look at the concentration:
I cannot believe how hard it was at the beginning, the most intense concentration was required to build the first rows. It was satisfying seeing it getting slowly longer and longer. The scarf was for my Granma, as she always used to knit us scarves plus hats plus mittens when we were little, so first knitting product went to her for Christmas. She had bought us all scarves for Christmas coincidentally, here we are, suitably attired:
Major pride still. Next one growing on the needle stalk:
This wool I found in a Stroud shop, and the lady sold it me for a pound because she wasn’t sure where I’d found it! And it really is a scrawny piece of wool I have to admit. I’ve written a sort of poem about knitting this one, here it is:
the wool is scrawny, thin,
it leaks from a mossy ball
it is tough as hens pecking in the rain
scattered grain and worms and weeds
leathery skin beneath their wings.
It is wiry as dried pine needles on a forest floor
brushing my fingers, tense and strung together
with the tendons of two hands plucking
and pulling between two bows of grey.
These knitting tools are thin as the bones in my thumb
They are smooth, unmarked by time,
they will outlast my life
I’m knitting a path to guide me through the small hours
It grows with the latching on of loops
and some hours it crawls
and some hours I am fast enough that
the neuron path from brain to hands
flies, synapses swift as swallows.