Wicked rhubarb

Pencil-thin and pink, the spring’s first stalks.
This market stall knows how temptation finds
the eager sinner; the stall-holder talks
of how life used to be, how this reminds
him of his mother  -  couldn’t pick it till
it grew inch-thick and lost all tenderness.
We eye the new growth’s innocence  -  and will
I yield to this temptation? Yes! Oh, yes!

The morning after

Streets wear their shame-faced, hosed-down look,
woken up too early, dragged
out of a sleep that barely started
into a day they don’t want to recognise,
and last night’s Full Strength
rolls empty in the gutter.

D. A. Prince

If you have any comments on these poems,  D. A. Prince would be pleased to hear from you.