Terroir - July 19 2023

 

Terroir

July 19 2023

The olive trees

stand on a gentle slope

in the dry summer heat.

They look stately, timeless, serene,

not so much in service to men

as belonging here.

They are not beautiful trees,

at least not in the supple sense

of youthful pulchritude;

not with their densely tangled canopies

convoluted trunks

small dusty leaves.

But having occupied this land

for hundreds of years

   —   firmly rooted here

    and still as sentinels   —

they have a beauty all their own.

Like a wise old matriarch

have the gravitas of age.

Know their place.

Seem eternal.

The terroir

of extra virgin, cold pressed

comprised of place, soil, weather.

And here, or so they claim, the best.

Along with the generations

who have tended them

they've impassively outlived.

A chainsaw

can take one down

in a few heedless minutes,

the orchard

a week or so.

But this is progress, they say

and there's no stopping it,

as the harsh rattling rev

of the infernal machine

shatters the calm.

Leaving the smell

of faintly singed wood

mixed with 2-stroke exhaust.

The sweet scent

of fruit heavy with fat

crushed in the fall.

And the cleared slope

which will no longer hold.

Aromatic oil

bleeds into the ground,

a bright mix

of ripe olives 

and sandy soil

this land is known for.

But which will soon sour

in the unforgiving heat;

going rancid

in the darkly stained earth.

Because of climate change, ancient olive trees are dying. I heard that in Spain, some orchards are being cut down for wind farms (how ironic!) This is the price of modernity: traditional ways of life disrespected; irreplaceable things treated as disposable. Especially the olive tree, with its Biblical resonance; olive oil, used to anoint and reward (for example, Olympic athletes in ancient Greece); the olive branch, symbol of peace. And even though I personally quite dislike olive oil, I still feel a deep sense of loss.