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Rowan
Rowan, or mountain ash, has always amazed me thanks to is incredible capacity to endure in the harshest and wildest environments, growing out of sheer, bare rock.
Rowan
The rowan grows out of the rock you find
If you take the narrow path to the right of the lake.
As you round a ridge of holly and gneiss
You’ll see the rock face rearing up above
Like a stallion over the plane.
It now seems obvious why the ancient Welsh
Thought rowan the most magic wood
Best for wands and protective charms
The same with which Math ap Mathonwy
Conjured Blodeuwedd out of the flowers
And Gwydion healed his nephew, Lleu,
In the form of a wounded eagle.
The mountain ash’s searching roots
Pierce a crack in impenetrable rock
And cling to its sheer face
In defiance of the void below
Enduring the winds that sweep from the valley
The tumult of the rain and hail
The frosts of nights and winters
The rush of storms, the mountain’s timeless march.
Amongst all this, each year,
The rowan adds its rings of growth
Conjures berries red as garnets
And renews its greatest achievement: to endure.
