Green-gold olives

May’s eve I take my broom
Last ray of sun is dead
Here ... it is real...
The shy clouds hide stars
Only the Moon, Jupiter and Saturn
Shine their breastplates
Of radiant light…

I take my broom to the front of our home
Into the dustpan goes dry brown and yellow
Pointy olive leaves and hard green-gold olives…
Into the waste bin…away away
Goes all the thoughts of this day
Of a wooing crone…

Looking around as I sweep and bend
For any Fay to show their haunting ways
In the clouds sailing on the night or
Upon the grasping arms of the olive tree.

Queen of Elphame mocks me
As I move quickly and consistently
I call her Sabrina…
How symbolic have I become?

Wild movement…yet strangely calm
Sweet sweat dripping
My dusty perfume...
I do as many an old crone
Sweeping clean the front of their home.

On this eve of memory.

~ Hudley

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