Rhubarb and Custard

          and custard

Take the stalks,
pink as a morning sky,
slim as a willow wand,
crowned by unfurled leaves
more gold than green.
Cut into weeping chunks,
sugar-crystal jeweled.
Layer them into a
butter-glistened dish.
Take yeasty-heady bread,
sliced and buttered,
trimmed to party triangles,
layer onto the fruit,
sugaring as you go.
Break 3 fresh eggs.
Hell! Make it 4!
Beat in a tablespoon
of... sugar, of course.
Scrape vanilla seeds
into blood-warm milk,
2 wine glasses will do.
Beat in the eggs,
add cream-or not.
Spoon over the bread,
press down, be firm.
Leave to soak
the goodness up
for a greedy hour.
Coddle the dish
In a water bath.
Gently bake
at 180 degrees
and wait till the bread
stands gold and proud,
crisp and billowing.
Serve at once
with cream
or maybe not.
It's rhubarb and custard.
Good as gold!

Anne Steward

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Anne Steward
would be pleased to hear them.