Paul Stephenson

Rhubarb

after Norman MacCaig

And another thing: stop looking
like embarrassed celery. It doesn’t suit.

How can you stand there, glittery in pink,
some of you rigid, some all over the shop?

Deep down you’re marooned, a sour forest
spilling out beneath a harmful canopy.

You know I love you just for being rhubarb,
for keeping pushing in dim conditions.

I stew your sinew and forgive you
for giving me nothing that first season.