I wrote this for a local anthology "Pentland Voices" compiled by Penicuik Community Arts Association, published by Pen-Y-Coe Press. My poem is the history of Rosslyn Castle as told by the yew tree that grows in its courtyard. It is thought that the tree was planted when the castle was first built, circa 1348.Rosslyn Yew
A seed six hundred years ago,symbol of resurrection,
investment in wood:
bows to keep their soldiers fighting.
I grew and spread my arms;
they cut me, made their bows.
But what arrow can stop a maid or a candle to find a dog?
Flames licked, sliced fabric, walls, wood,
towers tumbled over hiding women,
and a brave chaplain tolled a high bell.
I grew and spread my arms;
They cut me, made their bows.
But what arrow can pierce King Henry’s fire?
Blackened walls fell under crumbling ceilings,
and this time a family fled.
They returned, rebuilt, expanded
to stories under stories down the cliff
and a door into a courtyard where I watched
cooks to kitchens, maids to parlours, children to orchard,
prisoners to cells.
But what arrow can stop a canon from Monk’s battery?
Balls tore my branches,
bore holes in stones, a castle cascading, family fleeing
until all that remained was treasure, a black knight, a white lady
and a folly for an artist’s eye.
I grow and spread my arms;
crows fly through gridded, glassless windows;
pigeons share their fern-frilled city;
people come and stare and walk away;
some bide in rooms restored then leave.
But the birds stay, the ferns stay, the ghosts stay, and I stay.
I am resurrection.
I grow and spread my arms.
