Synopsis
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.
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