Wool over my eyes
When I think of the beginning, it's Rosy
Catchpole I remember, knitting everywhere:
in the playground, round the coke stove
in winter. Rib. Cable. Moss. She could pass
slipped stitches over whole jumpers
while we were still unpicking dishcloths.
Frances Wilson's patiently accumulated second collection is a joy — a satisfying patchwork of necessary celebratory poems that honour our ordinary human experiences
Michael Laskey
These are poems about many themes and people, including her experience of becoming a widow.
When I think of the beginning, it's Rosy
Catchpole I remember, knitting everywhere:
in the playground, round the coke stove
in winter. Rib. Cable. Moss. She could pass
slipped stitches over whole jumpers
while we were still unpicking dishcloths.
Frances Wilson's patiently accumulated second collection is a joy — a satisfying patchwork of necessary celebratory poems that honour our ordinary human experiences
Michael Laskey
These are poems about many themes and people, including her experience of becoming a widow.