In the Shetland Isles, the women of traditional crofting families would earn extra income by knitting fine shawls and jerseys. They often wore a leather girdle which held their knitting needles at 90 degrees to their bodies, and allowed them to knit while doing farm work and household chores.   On Unst she walked three hours each summer’s day – My grandfather asleep, strapped to her back; Knitting irons crossed forwards from her girdle. Setting out at four, on the sun’s ellipse, She passed by Burrafirth and Tonga Stack, Along the peaty slope to the puffin-combed cliffs. To stare across at sea-worn Muckle Flugga, Its lighthouse, sea-bird shimmer, and her man. That winter two supply ships foundered, tossed Like salad by the drunken swell. Four months With no fresh stores, no mail and no fresh crew. Still she walked three hours each day between two Rooms of their house, at ice-bound Crussa Field, Knitting and un-knitting a winding sheet, Treading into her child’s dreams, softly, The wheeling cipher of infinity.