Rhubarb crumble

Rhubarb Crumble

In a flour‑streaked kitchen, the afternoon sighs
I snip the bright stalks, a ruby‑red surprise.
The spoon dives into room‑temperature jam,
Pastel‑yellowed leaves arranged in a caramel‑clad plan.

Baking, with the oven’s amber breath, we wait—
A scent of citrus, butter, and cinnamon‑irate.
The crumble, golden‑brown, swirls, a flaky crest,
Each crumb a promise of sweet‑tart happiness.

Steam curls like a whisper, the air thick with spice,
A ladle dips, the rhythm of a simple re‑slice.
With clink of pewter cup and distant lullaby,
We taste the stormy skin, a tart‑sweet lullaby.

Now served in porcelain, it clinks with joy,
A nod to tradition, a bite of the British toy.
Rhubarb crumbles on a Sunday, an old‑fashioned spell—
A familiar comfort until the final crumb's farewell.