When I walk my dog I often walk past an old house where there was a ball of wool in the window. Every time a different colour. It became a highlight to spot. I speculated that the house belonged to a keen knitter.
What were they making?
A jumper for a grandchild? a knitted toy? squares for blankets? for people? for dogs?
Or was it a secret signal? Red = danger, Green = come and visit, Pink = our secret is out. Were they being held prisoner?
Slowly the garden outside grew up and the window was obscured. Knitting itself around the knitter?
Solace? or a knitted prison?
One day they came to cut down the bushes, to unravel the knitting. When the garden was empty there was no wool in the window. The knitter had gone, unravelled with the garden. Maybe they escaped by knitting a ladder to the skies?
A Wobbly Line 