Mountain ash my most favourite tree,
Inadequate are words to describe thee.
Prominent, audacious, proud and free,
Know how much you mean to me.

In towns and cities tall with slender boughs,
Lining avenues regimentally.
In bold, wide vistas such a pleasure to see,
On the grounds of stately homes of gentry.

On bleak moorlands alone, wild and free,
Growing out from mountains precariously.
Of all Britain’s ancient noble trees,
You are the most special one to me.

Delicate branches stretching endlessly,
Leaves upon them grow abundantly.
Pretty orange and deep red berries,
Devoured by song birds in a scurry.

Cold, icy winds will soon descend,
Their purpose to whip and make you bend.
Your berries you will hold steadfast,
Through out the winter, they must last.

Mountain Ash my favourite tree,
Know how much you mean to me.
Always remain brave and free,
My Rowan how much I truly love thee.

Breda Ware