In a land overflowing
With a blessèd abundance
Of olive trees, not having one
To call your own and where
Those who had finished
Gathering theirs had packed up
The bulging sacks,
Hand-woven heavy
Ground-covering cloths
And gone home, to go there afterwards,
Get down on your hands and knees
And salvage the precious few
Shiny fruits that had over-
Flowed and escaped
The nets of the plenty.
Wonderful and moving poem, with marvelous vivid particulars, and sounds superb aloud.
ReplyDeleteSo good to hear you liked this poem, John, and Eleni was delighted, too, as it describes what her grandmother used to do; we both thank you for your feedback.
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