BASKET WEAVER
Fingers move fast and the hands quite nibble,
The basket makers never ever seemed to fumble,
Baskets of every size and many different shapes,
A steaming pot over which the twigs were draped.
Twisting, weaving, bending, winding in and out
Intricate patterns, some delicate, some quite stout.
They seemed to charge so little for each basket done,
There industry and admiration of them by me was won.
Even the young children used to work hard each day,
Poorly dressed and thin each working in their own way.
I wanted a specially nice basket for my mom’s birthday,
Just a penny a week was all that I could afford to pay,
There it was all finished my mom’s basket sitting there
Just before her birthday, it was mine, I was as light as air.
They had put a special lining of pretty flowered material
For the little girl my age said I was her only real pal.
I had given her some socks and a dress she could wear,
I might as well had given them lots of money I swear.
Mom loved the basket then she bought one for her friend,
It then seemed that their basket trade never had an end.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson July 28, 2002
Front Page