Didn’t know what else to do,
so I stuck my hand in the basket
and gave each of ’em a good fistful of fat olives.
They squelched, that kind I like — ripe and sun-heavy.
Seemed to do the trick.
As they wandered off, their limbs flappin’ like seaweed in a gale,
they had this wee bounce to them,
a sort of wiggly joy I’d never seen done quite that way.
Made me chuckle, it did.
Proper belly one.
And sure enough, back they came the next day.
Bit earlier.
Same two, far’s I could tell.
We’d nicknamed them Paintbrush and Sunbeam —
hair like they’d wrestled with a lightning storm and lost.
Soon as they clocked me,
they picked up speed,
making these high-pitched squawks like teapots getting ideas.
But I’ve had kittens before,
so I gave ’em the big voice.
"Steady now, lads. Harvest’s not done."
They gave me a queer look,
but held back from the olives, bless them.
While I worked, they mucked about —
head over heels,
buryin’ themselves halfway down like they’d taken root,
cutting shapes through the clouds with their wiggly fingers
(though I had to bark at them
when the hail came down and smashed Big Paul’s greenhouse —
bloody weather-meddlers).
Didn’t take long before they puffed up like bellows,
lost their balance, rolled straight into the thorn patch,
then started stinkin’ like three lavender fields rolled into one.
You’ve never seen bees get so political.
Every time it went sideways — which was always —
they’d spiral round each other,
shakin’ and whoopin’ like they’d just discovered chaos was fun.
When I was done pickin’,
I waved ’em over.
Said they could take what they liked.
Felt a proper fondness for ’em by then —
wee goblins, but good hearts.
They looked fit to scoff the whole basket…
but no.
Took one olive.
And split it.
