I never thought of you majestic like an old olive tree,
Rather more subtle in approach,
Like the passing of seasons, and all that follows,
I yearn to embrace you like Spring does the swallows.
Reddened earth, fertile for the coming of droves,
Whose flight of familiarity carves a path so elegant and free,
Bearing witness to Aphrodite and all her foes,
Restless, 'neath the olive groves.
An obsession, executed so perfectly.
A reconciliation with the bitter fruit symbolic of fertility.
Needless to awe how it takes four strong-stratured men to embrace an old olive tree
When I, the humblest of them all, will never embrace thee.
