All good art is an indiscretion.

On June 21, 2008, I alerted the world to an outbreak of guerilla knitting. After a period without any action in this war on woolsynthetic rubbish, the textile terrorists have STRUCK AGAIN!

All that I can say is "who are these people?" and "why do they hate our freedom bike racks?"



In celebration of the theme, today's entry into the rolling Saturday Festival of *someone else's* Poetry is probably my favourite poem about knitting (a long list indeed).

Grey Knitting, Katherine Hale

ALL through the country, in the autumn stillness,
A web of grey spreads strangely, rim to rim;
And you may hear the sound of knitting needles,
Incessant, gentle,–dim.

A tiny click of little wooden needles,
Elfin amid the gianthood of war;
Whispers of women, tireless and patient,
Who weave the web afar.

Whispers of women, tireless and patient–
'Foolish, inadequate!' we hear you say;
'Grey wool on fields of hell is out of fashion,'
And yet we weave the web from day to day.

Suppose some soldier dying, gaily dying,
Under the alien skies, in his last hour,
Should listen, in death's prescience so vivid,
And hear a fairy sound bloom like a flower–

I like to think that soldiers, gaily dying
For the white Christ on fields with shame sown deep,
May hear the fairy click of women's needles,
As they fall fast asleep.