Fair Isle
written by: Deirdre Carney
Knitting, I feel close to my mother,
A champion of the art.
“Let me just finish this row,”
As I asked her for something.
“About an inch more should do it,”
When she measured the work against my back.
“Goodness, that’s tight,”
Inspecting the row I had knit in her jumper.
Watching TV, safe in the click of her needles.
Now I am knitting my first Fair Isle jumper
For the ceilidh at Hogmanay.
She would turn them out every winter
For her three growing children
And a great big one for our father.
Patience, perfection.
Carry floats across and trap them,
Not too tight or your work will pucker.
This I already know.
Five colours, though,
How to introduce them
And phase them out?
Surely too many to take up the side.
Online gurus avoid the issue
Offering tips on two-colour patterns.
My sides look baggy, sloppy.
I unravel the knitting,
Cannot live with it looking like that.
Even if the seams hide the mess
I will still know.
The sides are looking better now.
The jumper is growing,
Ingenious and neat from the outside,
The back of it ugly, chaotic.
“You wouldn’t know when it’s on.
Fair Isle’s just like that,”
My knitter friend tells me.
I laugh and tell her
I’ll keep it buttoned up all night
To protect my reputation.
The gurus agree.
You just have to accept
How the back looks.
“Fair Isles’s just like that.
There’s nothing you can do about it.”
At Hogmanay
I will wear my Fair Isle,
Buttoned up, a little uncomfortable
As the night draws on,
As the dancers swirl.
“You made it yourself?
Oh, you clever thing!”
Closing my eyes
I can see my mother’s jumpers
But only from the front.
I don’t think I ever
Really looked at the reverse.
