Two short poems and a set of instructions.
spitting rain
drinking Assam
*
bathing
among broom blossoms
*
The oak sapling is potted up. It can be planted any time:
in an open space, unshaded. It will need plenty of room; one day it will be
eighty feet tall and fifty feet round, snarled, stag-horned.
I pocketed the acorn six years ago in Sunart, stratified it
over that first winter, then put it out in spring. It germinated. I remember
the pleasure of the first two leaves. It grew on at Carbeth inside the cage I
made to protect one of the apple trees from deer.
With the oak tree, which I’ve marked with a red ribbon for
collection, I’ve left chick wire. Cut five stakes – it’s a better number than
four – at least three times longer than the height of the oak sapling. Surround
the sapling with these stakes, driven into the ground one third their length.
At the centre dig a hole twice as wide and twice as deep as the little oak
tree's roots. At its bottom, if you have some, put a little well-rotted manure or
compost. Cover this with earth from the hole. Tap the sapling from its pot,
tease out its roots and spread them out over the replaced earth. Cover them
with more earth, taking care to leave the level of earth around the sapling’s
trunk where it was in the pot. Heel carefully around the stem; enough to firm
the soil around the roots without compacting it. Water plentifully; this will
help settle roots and give a good start. Do not stake the oak itself. It is
wild and knows better how to cope with wind than we do.
String the chick wire around your stakes and secure,
leaving no gaps anywhere for a hungry deer’s nose or teeth. Ensure that a deer
cannot reach over your chick wire. If you are troubled by rabbits, a little
home-made trunk collar should be enough. Easily made from a plastic milk
bottle. It should not deter growth. Just enough to stop rabbits eating the
bark.
In its first spring in its new home: perhaps a top
dressing of blood and bonemeal.
Bow to the tree; wish it well. Watch it grow.
The oak came and went from Carbeth. I remember the last time
we went from the hut, me driving through Maryhill, listening to you and Larry,
speaking loudly because of your failing hearing: Three men in a car; you both
shouted at me in unison: you just went
through a red light. So I did. So I did. Memories grow fond and slowly,
like trees.
