BASKET

Like others of his trade
The God of Baskets wanders
Carrying on his back
Or, when he can afford one,
On a small donkey’s back,
The wares he’s made.
At night he lights a candle
And answers prayers.

When he was young he would
Wager he could make baskets
From anything, from flint
Or iron or time itself. Once
He made one from moonlight
It weighed nothing but could hold
A lifetime's collection of regrets
As well as a good lunch
And makings for a cup of tea.