This is my belated submission to the challenge (by Ingrid at Experiments in Fiction) to write a spring sonnet. I must admit, I tried initially to write about my beef that it’s autumn where I live and yet we still partake of symbols of fertility like easter eggs and we decorate our supermarkets with bunny footprints, etc. Anyway I wrote a sonnet but decided it was boring and whingey. So here’s my second attempt. I didn’t really attempt iambic pentameter (which I found funny when I googled it as it said it was five metric feet. Sounds imperially metric to me.) But feel free to see if you can find any accidental da DUMs.
It is Easter in Australia, - that’s autumn, not spring but in the olive grove, the trees march in quiet rows of spinning light and shade, and exuberant fruiting - Koroneikis, Missions, Corregiolas, and Frantoios bowed under sprays of self-shadowing green nuts. Come May and we’ll meet, wielding orange plastic rakes with a catching trampoline bed that opens and shuts around the trunk of each tree, funnelling our takes into buckets. For oil, the rakes make for quicker picks but if you want to pickle table olives, it’s one by one. Pendulino, Manzanillo, Kalamata, UC13A6 Place them gently into padded bags, strapped to your front. The dogs will frolick over grass swathes – a canine ideal - while willy wagtails chatter and overhead the wedgies wheel