I have been indulging my fingers in the touch of your fibre. In the evenings, after the other jobs are done, I have been soaking my hands in it as a soothing sensation for the soul. In the early morning when I have been disturbed by some sharp thoughts during my sleep, the entwined yarn of the blanket has been a cushion for the piercing pain. I have hugged your neck and I have smelled your nose as you offer it to me, like a tribal welcoming reception. I have tangled the strands to tie lock the warmth that will wrap me in the following winter, and I have modified the hue with a splash of plant colour for the fashion fever of changing things. When I open your fleece, you open questions in my head, when I observe the qualities of your coat, you remind me of your parents and make me look forward to the dark winter evenings when I won’t see you so much, but I will have the freedom to work your fleece without permission.
I have had you that close, tight against my skin. And still, I have to part, to let go, as you were intended to be just a future transaction, like a piece of the process. For some reason I choose you are not just a number. I give you a name. And every so on I search for you in the register and look through the pictures on the www to find you again and make sure you are still loved, somewhere else, by someone else.
Kestle Alpacas 