The Olive Tree

Sunday quiet, just a host of birds,
and old church bell striking four. 
No Spanish chatter nor children
playing and calling in the air.

The sun warms this spot on village square
just me and this squat and ancient olive tree.
I'm glad it cannot talk as this allows imagination
the romantic sort to muse on what it's seen.

No doubt the truth has much more
grit and dark, things that would mar
the good nature in my heart, brought
on by this early springing glow.

I wonder if this tree will mark this time. 
Me beside on wooden bench; breaking off
my journey back to France.
It may not, but I shall  store
away this precious tranquil hour. 

Cubillas de Santa Marta 06/02/22