You ploughed the seas. You crossed the skies. Saw the shipwrecks. Gathered

your wealth in words. Then, like Odysseus seeing the smoke rising, you decided

to become trees. To grow roots, you wrote. To grow. And while the bulldozers

work round you, while the Fates, the Wars, the Envious, the Arrogant,

lay siege to you, as they always do and always will, remember to stand your ground

like thousand year-old olives, twisting golden brown trunks and holding hands. Expand,

burrow deeper and fashion a silky smooth quilt, a glowing oil lamp, a warming hearth,

a spacious kitchen, a deep well and a cool, vine-clad terrace.

Odyssey is a memory. A treasure and a well-kept secret. Your home always yearned

for you. Your olive-tree bed rooted to the ground. Penelope with outstretched

arms will hug you. The lyre and the xylophone. The drum and the flute will lead you.

And you will dance, and dance and sing the life she could only dream of.

And if, like the man of old, you find your journey not yet over,

embark on each new voyage with zest. Plan each trip in language,

 build your boats with words. Thread your sails with rays from your joyous souls.

And for fuel, for fuel employ the subtle beating of your hearts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                   

If Trees, Then Olive Trees               (for Tania and Jaques)

Stella Pierides

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