It has to do with the basket,
the kind the lady of the manor
in the Scottish Highlands
carries to her garden
to pick herbs.
Low and flat.
Different from the one
I try to make do with,
the wide stereotypical
basket ladies use to pick
flowers in magazines or films.
I go out with mine,
hoping for a purity of moment
which eludes me
the quality which has no name,
with which we build our lives.
Woven into hand made things,
smoothed in the hand thrown bowl.
It comes from the hands,
it’s how we give back to ourselves.