Ten arms’ round the olive tree was;
Fifteen feet tall;
Hands down, the oldest wood
This wood would allow.
Knotted and knurled the bark was;
Creased and crimped,
Folded and furled,
Hidden eyes looking on, unblinking.
Silent and sentinel its watch was;
Tirelessly gazing, sensing
The ebb and flow of days
Passing, impassively.
Rich yet stolen the harvest was;
Blackest of birds,
Bitterest of fruit,
Taken whole, its future set.
Scorched and charred its crown was,
Wind-fired, flame-licked,
Blackened and smoked,
Yet, from ashes, new beginnings.
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