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  • Spring is awakening and in my garden the leaves of the rhubarb pushed up on deep red stalks are unfolding, still crumpled at the edges, but stretching firm and green out into the world every day. The taste of rhubarb is one the tastes of the spring for me; sharp-sweet, tingling, slightly electric: penetrating. It wakes the cells on the tongue to the bright flavours to come, it arouses the ancient memory, we remember the rebirth of life; the child of the earth walks again among us singing, playing, wild for the live that springs through its limbs.
    Rhubarb I've read grows wild on the banks of the River Volga, Russia-the first part of the name 'Rhu' comes from the Scythian name for the river 'Rha' and in Ancient Greek it was Rha-Barbarum. The ancient Chinese knew a lot about rhubarbs medicinal properties.
    In the photograph you will probably notice on the leaf a caterpillar, who is fattening himself on the fresh green, preparing himself for his summer incarnation as a butterfly.
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