A poem I wrote years and years ago, about my Mam. It's quite apt now as I'm learning crochet myself.
The bright, red wool curls
around fingers that should be tapping keys,
A glass of wine waits on the stool
as she counts the hooks and knots
of a crocheted spiral.
She's making him pretty neck pouches
of coloured wool because he can't afford to buy them,
and she likes to see him happy.