by FRED DUNCAN
Today we harvest the olives.
The trees are heavy with fruit,
Green and purple, crimson and black,
Like pearls with their lustre,
Absorbing and reflecting the autumn sun.
Our fingers like crabs,
Combing the silvery leaves,
Searching for the pearls,
Plucking them, guiding them,
They fall as precious drops,
Into our thirsty baskets.
The work is slow but honest;
Our thoughts float like the clouds,
We are peasants of ancient worlds,
Who spoke of gods and saints and heroes –
Anointed, their heads garlanded with leaves,
And of Christ, as he prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane,
In the dark shadow of the Mount of Olives.
The air turns cool in the dusk.
Still we pick.
The olives are black against the sky –
A sky cold and clear with the promise of frost;
In the distance, the trees are silhouetted on the hills,
And high above, a silent plane,
With silver trails flowing from its wings;
For a brief moment they turn vermilion
When they catch the rays of the dying sun.
Coal River Valley, Tasmania/lutruwita