Feast

It was never party food,

much too exotic, salty - foreign.

I see now that was probably an allegory.

No piping hot crumpets when I tumbled into the kitchen.

No shortbreads with fresh tea,

No sweeties from the jar.

No, not for me.

A craving instead for bread from a wood oven

torn open with relish.

That yeasty steam, that makes your mouth bubble inside.

But I am patient because that is only part one.

I take the jar from the pantry and crack open the lid.

Dipping in to pluck them out shiny, plump, and black,

a whole handful.

Peeling the flesh from the pit, hands purpling with the task,

I place them carefully in the bread, a black and white vision

from peasant fields.

Olives on crusty bread, the simplest of delights

It transports me through generations,

to hand tilled fields

and dough kneaded on wooden boards.

Gathering sheets, laid out on hard earth,

and strong sticks to beat the branches,

so that the fruit falls like hailstones

to be captured in a family recipe

that needs time to

become,

a feast.