its a far cry from Bucharest

in this dark and earthy shed,

thinks of her tearful mother

the man she's shortly to wed

 

draughts slice wooden walls,

rats scuttering in the hay-loft,

rubbing her hands for warmth

tells herself not to be so soft

 

slim candles shadow the gloom,

bloke appears in muddy boots,

shoving his wheelbarrow in a

mini-forest of sprouting roots

 

rhubarb crowns giving birth to

silent seas of slight pink stalks,

muck and brass, the Rhubarb

Triangle, where money talks

 

she tenderly plucks the stems

Gabriela Angelika is her name,

cossets the candles into boxes

for forcing rhubarb's her game

 

Christmas candles in the shed,

back home was plum brandy,

fresh-made pickle and trotters,

Gabriela begins to feel randy

 

boyfriend's stalk pink, but harder,

farm caravan rough and tumble,

so sweet after only eight weeks,

makes Niku a perfect crumble