First in a series of sonnets on Ash trees; first draft; “Ash Sapling”
At germination it had all it needed to live
But the spark of living water. Once bathed it sprouts.
Shoots fighting towards the sun will grow, restive
Upwards, but roots unseen will sprawl ever out.
Beneath, the weaving tendrils will cling to earth
to seek for its woody flesh sustenance,
And too to hold against the wind its girth
Augmented by the height of its solar ascent.
It knows its terrain through every root’s raw tip
Thus preferring the softest filth for its vein.
Its crown knows not its goal though it may submit
And stoop for the radiant warmth of the sun.
Some ashes fall for being to fast erect
While others perish for terranean neglect.
