First went the Ash from the smouldering ranks
Scattering her leaves on the brown river bank,
So went she.
Next went the Chestnut, her leaves all tattered
Like a robin in winter when rough storms have battered,
Her robes fell.
Then thirdly the Hawthorn said good-bye
She went with a moan and a tear in her eye,
Strewing the ground.
Lastly the Sycamore its spotted leaves shed
They were the last to hang their head,
And fall to the ground.
Sammie Forgrave Age 12