grey-shawl

Simple Grey Crochet Wrap

Simple Grey Crochet Wrap

I don’t crochet wraps or shawls very often but I decided that I wanted to make one for my husband’s grandmother. I looked through my crochet magazines and found a pattern called the Smoke & Mirrors Wrap. I found this pattern in Crochet! Magazine (Autumn 2013) Volume 26, No. 3. I used Patons Lace yarn.

Here are some pictures of the shawl before I shipped it off.

It is a very easy project to work…

View On WordPress

Greyish grey of Plain Pashmina, it is from cotton marble which is suitable for hot weather, have high level of opacity & can cover you chest part depends on how you style it. The best part is, it is easy to shape & can be wear at any occasion! You can get it at a price of RM20 :)

Under A Pale Sky

I.

Under a pale sky

I walk the dusty heavens,

my feet turned inward

then outward -

splayed out,

twisted foot

to the dirt,

my feet are

strange and unshod

and proud of it.

II.

The sky darkens

as the wind rises

and paleness evaporates

like so many birds

on a breeze.

As I walk on

the birds flower out

in front of me,

my wake is

worrying them,

my feet are

carrying them

to the far horizon.

III.

The rain comes on,

pooling in the cleft

above my upper lip

and resting in my eyebrows.

The sun has slunk

out of view and

I am walking amid

grey behind,

grey in front

and grey all

around.

There is nowhere

on earth like this

granite town on

a grey day.

I am walking colour

though, pinking

up the atmosphere

with my flushed cheeks

and blue shawl.

Grey it stays, sullen.

IV.

I am at the eye of

the storm now, with

things whistling past

me at a fast lick -

tea-kettles and litters

of puppies, underskirts

and sheepskins,

and the wind squalls

about me and

mad mad mad

the rain lashes

my figure to the

ground: and the

storm is free-flying,

lolling about and

whispering up and

I am at the eye.

My eyes blinded

by the din,

by the very might

of it, that I

momentarily forget

who I am and

why I’m here,

my name and reason

and country.

I carry on.

The Queen in me

thinks I am not

made for such

swell furies,

but would a

Queen walk

a storm in

bare naked

feet and

a tatty shawl?

V.

I am going to my lover’s

home, his house sits

across the river

from mine and every

day I traverse this

field and cross

this little wooden

bridge to be

by his side.

The bridge shakes

heartily in the wind

as if laughing

in its insides

at my foolishness.

I stumble, one

glaring eye

sees the rushing

river, the fish

madly dashing in

it, and it seems

to rise up to

meet me and

I feel its

wrench, its pull,

and at full

pelt the river

is inviting:

yet I cross

it untroubled

by my death-wish.

VI.

And then as the storm

subsides I arrive

at my lover’s,

his little blue house,

and he is rushing out

to greet me sweetly,

and all my mad

dash has been

worth it, as

he makes me tea

on his fire and

marshmallow soup

and unclenches me

from me soaking

shawl and

wraps blanket

about my feet,

kissing them,

frozen and blue,

til they are

warm once more.

Blurred vision slowly calibrates;
duplicated horizons slither into one.
The sky is up, the ground below.
But when the reeling ends,
I’m still stranded in this desolate place.
I was born frowning, from meaninglessness,
on a plain which ends only in mists.
Reversion, forever, into very little.
All I have is what I’ve always had;
worthless trinket treasures clutched close.
I awake from year-long fever dreams,
every day with amnesia of that which is good;
wrapped shaking in a wretched shawl,
of grey silken fate, too reluctant to remind me.
When I am drunken on joy, I wake up worsened;
a fatigued and shivering wretch.
My life is a question.
With tired hands it reaches,
striving again for the answer;
can I feel the warmth of the world?
Today and always the answer is no.