The Lonely Rowan
From her roots, which grasp
the needle covered forest floor like claws,
her slender silver trunk turns slightly
as she climbs towards the gap
among the alien pines,
to where the sun still shines.
Where is she from, so young? Not here,
no mother tree to set her seed.
What does she on this hill top,
in this small space,
this dark and giant wood?
© Paul McCombie 2005-6