I guess that at one time or another - if we're being honest - we've all been blinded by the white hot heat and light of our fantasies, dreams, and ambitions; as poets it's practically in our job description to be thus.

The following poem owns up to flying too close to that particular sun, and the resultant crash-and-burn,

That doesn't mean we shouldn't keep trying for the impossible though ...

(It's also a recipe, so even if you don't like the poem, give the mix a try: it's great! Leave for around six weeks)

Dave R

_____________

 

         Olives

 

             I

Best picked fresh

from your neighbouring grove.

Take care not to leave

your terracotta-tiled

sea-facing view

and Mediterranean

cliff-top terrace

for longer than is strictly

necessary.

 

Place olives in a jar,

add garlic, sliced lemon,

mint, and freshly crushed

coriander seeds.

Cover with finest

extra virgin, seal

and leave to marinate.

 

The texture should be succulent;

the flavour a knockout punch.

 

The best part of the olive

Lies nearest to the stone  …

 

             II

I could sit here turning

terracotta-red, imagining

I was Durrell or Graves,

shuffling sheaves of Attic verse

and quaffing a glass

of pungent local plonk …

(the sun will set on this

as on other fantasies).

 

But give me this flavour,

this tang of dreams,

and let me quietly marinate

inside my pinkling skin

and oh-so-very-English

mid-Victorian terrace:

 

The best part of the olive

Lies nearest to the stone  …