Ode To An Olive.

Grown in groves on the sides of hills,

Ripened by the blazing Mediterranean sun;

These fruits grow into bunches of green delight,

To produce the oil for cooking my culinary repast.

These small green morsels of exquisite taste,

Tempt me from the shelves, as I pass them by,

Only to wander back, needing to take them

From the shelf, with anxious anticipation.

I release these trapped fruits from the jar,

And put them gently on my tongue, savour

Their wonderful unique flavour, with the buds of my sense,

Then bite lovingly into their soft, yielding flesh.

The taste lasts for minutes, but the other traplings

Call to me from their cell, so tempted again and again,

The green bodies soon disappear, until no more.

(Other colours are available!)