Cleaning olives

In a sea, no, an ocean of wild carrot
each plate sized face held aloft and
each demonic ox blood eye staring straight at the blinding sun
the valiant men in their signature red
toil gently at cleaning the olives

And the wind when it comes
reveals currents of chicory
blue as the sky but less punishing
like huge shoals of flying fish
and they lean to their work
these men dressed in red
and they work in silence profound

But the bees in the seas just behind them
the seas empurpled with flowers
keep a constant white noise
thrumming low and insistent
on the edge of their auditory landscape

And their knuckles are scraped
these noble proud men
by the age weathered barks
by the time honoured shells
of these noble, proud trees

There are faces in bark
there are patterns in branches
a beauty not seen from a distance
up close, as they are
the trees have a voice
they tell tales
of the past
of the present
and the future
while they bend to the work
in the hot midday sun