10th September 2020
Soon after settling here
From a well wooded Severn-descending Cotswold vale,
I decided to try growing oaks –
Despite being told with tutting head-shakes
That I’d no chance, whatever the sort of bl-bloody tree!
Because I knew what a struggle there’d be
Against whipcrack-gusting gales, saltdusty sea-breath,
Sunscorching ocean-clean air and windowpane-drumming rainweight,
I thought I’d seek acorns from local oaks
Already knowing these adversities.
I asked around, and again; many found my questions strange.
But eventually I found my way one early autumn day
Down to a pill once busied by trading sailing ships
To two sturdy trees thriving right at the saltings’ edge.
Their roots had always known
The earthtaste of this brackish terroir –
So much so, only by timing for low tide could I
Mudsticky gumboot to them with squeakswing bucket
To have my fill of those sister trees’ proliferate seedfalls…
Though the weather has contorted them older-looking,
Some of my oaks are now sixteen years old
And, with curiously human coincidence,
They have certainly reached their Age of Consent:
This afternoon brilliant new-tailored red admirals
Resting on passage to cidery wasp-mined apples
Ride the branch tip breezes amongst triplecluster acorns,
Fat little cup-cosy tree eggs which seem so suddenly ready:
For yesterday, I’m sure, none would have obliged,
On being thumb-brushed, to rugbytopple out
Into that very same bucket, perhaps, which gathered their parents.
And so, for me, such proud achievement:
Offspring of trees with maritime Pembrokeshire pedigree,
Marloes acorns from which truly Marloes oaks will grow.
As for what to do with them – why, give most to Marloes children, of course!
And ask the young to, as I did,
Plant and water, guard and keep guarding,
Weed and keep weeding,
Love and keep loving.
© Christopher Jessop 2020
