The Sartorial Olive Tree

The Sartorial Olive Tree

(This is an Ode is about the Grana Restaurant, Sydney. Not only did they capture my taste buds, but my creative immigration was inspired)

In Grana’s hush, beneath the stone and beam,

Where whispers dance in subterranean dream,

There stands, not leafed, but in poise and grace,

The sartorial olive tree, in its timeless place.

It rises tall through echoes deep and wide,

A witness to the clink of glass, full of pride,

Of love declared in shadows soft and low,

Its limbs laid bare where silken fashions flow.

Its bark a ghostly shimmer, pale, and bright,

A beacon in the softly cradled night.

Around, the rustic red-brick walls in song,

Exposed beams hum where ancient hearts belong.

Oh Grana, temple to the grain and flame,

You nourish more than hunger, more than name.

From outlying fields, the golden bounty pressed,

Flour milled on site, our soul becomes your guest.

The Austrian mill, a wooden masterwork divine,

Stands near the stairs, like roots of grapevine twine.

And past that sacred core, beneath the tree,

Lies Apollonia, a hidden reverie.

The velvet red curtains enclose hearts in flight,

And lovers sip on dreams through amber light.

A Sicilian den, where time forgets to chase,

And passion lingers long in scented space.

Above, the staff dressed in white drift soft as breeze,

They glide like angels, moving with such ease.

With liquid gifts and fragrant plates they roam,

Each dish a story, every taste a home.

The olive tree, though leafless, richly dressed,

Its décor shifting as the seasons manifest.

It greets each guest with elegance unspoken,

A symbol of the feast, the love, the token.

So Grana lives not just in grain or fire,

But in the quiet stirs of soul’s desire.

And those who enter, leaving streets behind,

Find the tree there, where memories entwine.