Frank Corcoran

The olives are picked. Cold, green oil flows in every mill. Each little olive has something of the grape, of the cherry, of the bean or pea. How many the shades of green, grey, purple blue and black-brown, fat or thin the plant-stone or fruit , how old this mediterranean harvest for Southern Europe. No swallow, I´ll head north over the waiting Alps, this season closed , this chapter closed for this winter. It was a good harvest, that work for chamber orchestra, the little harp solo piece and “A Dark Song” for bass clarinet solo. Well-made is “benfatto”, the annual head back up towards a different Winter. Satisfying this seasonal rhythm from South to North. Put away your medlars and fruit for another year.
Batten down. Stow and cover and slow down the big projects for yet another year of life. November´s coming as we recall all our dead leaves and their rustle. There´ll be new olives next year, new sap rising. Not just yet. Watch your rhythm. Enough for this 2011 autumn, green become ochre and brown. There should be horn-pipe music.