Rhubarb Mutterings

Burdock is a spit for rhubarb,
Giant leaf and fleshy stalk,
As if a kitchen garden has been on a woodland walk.
It’s not a sorrel, (nor a laurel),
’Spite of what it’s name may say –
Its lineage ain’t sitting with the dock nor with the bay.
It’s true it grows from burrs,
But its barbs all grow up rhubarb-y,
All decked-out in another’s species’ garb, apparently.
At least until it bolts,
When its thistleheads are in the hedge –
Unlike the cauliflowers of its doppleganger veg.
And then there’s the invader –
The mutant, spiky, giant kind –
Whose leaves atop are rhubarb, but beneath are sharply-spined.
They aren’t at all related,
When these three have never shared a bed,
It’s just the way plants get when they get big and broad and red.

The Registrar

I see them on the seats – all waiting, waiting patiently –
The loved-up couples holding hands and smiles,
Others with a carry-cot – happy too, but somewhat tired,
And those who simply sit and stare for miles.
They all have to come here, face-to-face, and talk to us –
Fiancés booking churches or our hall,
The parents who haven’t quite decided on a name,
The loved ones left behind – we see them all.
The not-yet newlyweds, or the newborns needing paperwork –
A second birth, officially existing,
A passport to a passport, to a doctor and a school,
With their whole life held within this single listing.
And then, amongst this joy, there are the ones to register a death –
It’s often by the next of kin, as if a final test.
Sometimes slipping peacefully, sometimes out of nowhere,
Sometimes only following an inquest.
We try to keep the office looking neutral and, well, yes, bland –
It does not, cannot, suit for either side.
A vase of flowers helps – though more white than colourful –
Compassion for the griever, confetti for the bride.
All must be recorded in our special everlasting ink,
The wedded and the born and the deceased.
It may be bureaucratic but the future’s sure to thank us,
And our touch is always personal, at least.

Flinders

Why are butterflies butterflies ?
And have been since Old English ?
And no, the Saxons didn’t call them ‘flutter-bys’,
Despite our wish.
Some are yellow, sure, but only some,
And gardens host more than a dairy –
Perhaps it’s simply fanciful and rum,
Like ladybirds are named for Mary.
P’raps the word trangresses,
Metamorphed from ones for ‘beat’ or ‘bug’ ?
But these are only ever guesses
Answered only with a shrug.
Other just-so tales are told,
Like witches flying in disguise –
But nobody, however bold,
Can pin down butterflies.
Yet why should language be so artful ?
Let it keep its logic pure,
Or else, like poets by the cartful,
All we get is endless metaphor.

But other lands are just as likely
To endow them with a role –
The Greeks would call them psyche,
Which they also called the soul,
And Romans said papilio,
The Portuguese say borboleta –
What they mean, though, we don’t know,
And your guess is no worse or better.
Spanish use of mariposa
Means ‘Maria, up and fly’ !
Italian farfalla shows a
Meaning shared with a bow-tie.
The Germans call one Schmetterling
For ‘cream-lette’, and the Russian word
Is babochka, for ‘grandma-on-the-wing’ –
Now this has got absurd !
Yet why should language be so frugal ?
Let it flash its colours high –
Or else, like Danish sommerfugl
All we get’s a literal ‘summer-fly’.