They’re coming down in showers,
The leaves all gold and red;
They’re covering the little flowers,
And tucking them in bed
They’ve spread a fairy carpet
All up and down the street;
And when we skip along to school,
they rustle ‘neath our feet
The days getting shorter and Christmas Eve is fast approaching and the autumnal knitting is slowly changing into wintery knitting, but not for now. This time I will show you Mersea by Carlo Volpi from the Rowan Knitting & Crochet Magazine 58. Mersea is a round neck sweater and is knitted in a slip-stitch pattern using 3 different yarns.
The basic yarn is Rowan Pure Wool Worsted and the second yarn is Rowan Kid Classic. These two yarns are used in the lower sections of body and sleeves. The third yarn Rowan Alpaca Colour substitutes the Rowan Kid Classic in the upper part, forming additional stripes.
Because I have some Rowan Alpaca Colour in shade Iron left in my stash, I decided to knit a cowl to match this garment by Carlo Volpi.
And here you can download your free pattern for this cowl:
We bicker in the car, heading east
to the Strood causeway, winter biting our tail.
The tide is low, the white-fenced road
dry and clear, flanked by stubbled fields.
We agree to disagree amid the clink
of sail-less masts. The boats are moored
in creeks, hung with ropes.
Paint-chipped wooden prows
lean between Blackwater, Colne, sea.
Silenced by the rhythm of our steps,
we pass dog-walkers, kite-flyers,
couples hand-in-hand, parents with children
in hats and mittens, windsurfers, beachcombers,
a row of pastel beach huts, padlocked for winter.
The salted air rushes our lungs
as we walk the sandbars and shingle,
crunching shells underfoot,
erasing footprints with footprints.
Shouts and barks and voices fade to wind.
The darkening mudflats stretch
beyond wooden groynes heavy with seaweed
out to a bank of metallic sea
glistening with possibility.
Two oyster pickers bend over buckets,
dark figures amongst golden pools of cats-paws.
The sun, swung low, huge in a cloud-flecked sky
dazzles us, bleaches our memories.
White heat glosses the cool sea
and Bradwell is like a ghost ship on the horizon.
Turning back, we stop to hear a curlew, and its trill
seems to rise from our throats, like a spell.