Olive heat

Out in the head sweat wastelands

Of a Portuguese summer

You stand isolated and dramatic

The only green in a sunburnt distance

Holding up oil fruit, suspended from the earth

Where blistered feet must manoeuvre

 

Up in the ice stilled farmlands

Of a Lithuanian winter

You have come out of context

A single green in a snowcapped whole

Branching exstatic across an unmoving season

Where wrapped up arms hold out in hope

 

Near to the sea parted sandlines

Of my ever changing limit

You land experienced and unexpected

Dressed in green of both soul and name

Standing unchallenged in the taken space

Where the colour differences are not so temperate.

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