Simple Gifts Poem by Martin Ward

I am humble
To share your food;
Grown on the hillside
Where every inch of land
Has by necessity
To yield to cultivation.
Perched on the precipice
Where one wrong move….
Weathered skin
Which tells of toil
As farmer, fisherman
And gastronome
Without pretention.
I see your face
In family
Who wait at the tables
And smile a genuine smile.
Without words
You tell of love,
Of simple gifts,
Unencumbered by
Bountiful others
Who live in different worlds.
Potatoes of direct lineage
From colonial imports,
Cooked to perfection,
With fish you caught.
Wine from
A Farmers' Cooperative
That tastes as wine
Should taste.
Nurtured on volcanic soil,
Yours was the best meal
I ever ate:
Unsophisticated;
True to earth and palate.
The offerings
Of celebrated chefs
Cannot compare
With your food,
My friend.