The basket weaver of Ludlow
Is tanned as a twist of tobacco
He sits on a small stool,
His willows around him,
Spokes and strands and stakes
Shoots and knife and bodkin
Like a mediaeval magpie
A maker of nests and straw
Here, amongst houses of timber and wattle
He is absorbed in his work
Like a mother French-pleating
A much loved daughter's hair.
Buildings of concrete and glass
Could be aeons away
And yesterday, a side-step into light
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Apparently a Basket Weaver but the poetess has so nicely described him that he becomes a hero.