Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.
So began the book of difficult fruit.
No prompt was needed on stage or off.
Only rhubarb.
No one knew what was being said
but it didn’t seem to matter
when so much cannot be understood
on the stage of life.
So no matter
the lack of clarity,
in its essence.
It was neither fish nor fowl,
fruit or vegetable.
No one could define it,
but no one needed to
in the book of difficult fruit
all one needed to know
from the beginning to the end,
was rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net,  and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: Poetry – Lynn White and Facebook .