"Making poetry baby", is the reply.
Today was the DKC's annual Knitters Frolic - an event to which I seem doomed never to capture in a focused photograph. Now, usually, when I attend the market, my method is this: Do the whole floor once. Slowly. Buy nothing but make mental notes of two or three things. Then go back round again. Those items that still speak to me or are indeed, still there, are the ones I'm meant to buy.
Today was different, I had been there a total of maybe twenty minutes when I hit the Wellington Fibres booth and my usual plan evaporated. This one remaining skein of fingering weight, 80% mohair, 20% wool, in the colour Plum, virtually leaped off the shelf into my arms. This is a yarn of substance in the hands. It has the sheen of silk, the weight of linen and the drape of bamboo. It feels like a new puppy. I will name it and love it forever. How is it possible to spin and dye simple mohair into this impossibly joyful burst of gorgeous? By adding 650 yards of mad skill and a pinch of abracadabra magic. Making poetry baby.