BY KARIN ANDERSEN
There is no-one here to catch the olives on a blanket,
no-one to carry them to the mill at the well,
no plodding donkey to pull the stone wheel
that grinds the olives.
No-one to pull the bucket from the well
and empty it and watch the oil rise.
No-one here to scoop the clouded green
into clay jars, skimming it from the water
with a flick of the wrist.
Only the birds in the trees and the wind are here,
only the cicadas and the sun.