Wild rhubarb

Wild rhubarb,
its leaves as large as shields,
tightly packed at the roadside,
the phalanx of the victors,
tautly funnelled, deep green pride,
not the slightest gap,
not a patch of ground unroofed

Wild rhubarb,
man-high right next to tarred tracks through the jungle,
at loggerheads, unrelenting thirst
so that not a single raindrop be lost,
not a single nettle on the ground,
least of all a daisy,
a marsh-marigold or dandelion
could survive here
amongst all the rank erectness of those stalks

Wild rhubarb,
the stems beneath engorged with water,
you almost feel like bending over and –
better not. In the shade of the leaves
in all likelihood there’s a bloodbath under way,
the stems are crackling and
sap drips heavily into those thirsty throats