Quercus robur

 

The wheel of the year is turning, the rains have finally come. Yesterday I sat in a brightly-lit nursery playroom for a staff INSET day, autumn displays already up on the walls. All is change, all is pushing forwards, expectations are being set for the year ahead. I find myself not wanting to write about 'Back to School', too many mixed emotions, too many memories. Like the fact that it's 16 years since I took my son, blonde and tufty-headed, for his first day at primary school. He rushed into the reception classroom, so eager and curious for what was to come. And now we're preparing to send him off again, this time for his second year of a Biology degree, in Plymouth. He definitely won't be home in time for tea.

Instead I offer you a poem. I went to a poetry open mic night at Bristol Folk House last week with a some friends from a women's writing group. I've set myself a challenge of standing up and reading something myself by the end of the year. The poem below is based on a longer prose piece that I wrote last year as part of a short nature writing course at University of Bristol. I decided to be savage with it and see if I could whittle a poem from it, I hope you like it. Here's a link to the original Oak Notes

Quercus robur

What should I say about the English Oak?
What stories should I tell? There are so many
A sense of solidity, a constant presence in an English landscape.
We carry a lazy sense that the oak will always be there, a pleasant green backdrop for our wellbeing walks.
A stay in a luxury Forest Holidays cabin promises:
“A natural sanctuary in one of Britain’s most famous oak forests”
With hot tub as standard.
Here is the oak as neatly packaged visitor experience.

How do we write and make art in the Anthropocene?
What is the point of a tiny voice in the midst of so much noise?
Whilst at primary school, my children told me they were learning persuasive writing,
With a bullet-pointed list of exactly how to do it, a national curriculum approved correct way
My early education was untrammelled by such direction
Meaning I struggle to weave together my scatter of words and facts
I’m straying off the path.
Maybe I’ve been led astray by fairy folk said to reside in ancient oaks,
Or maybe the old stories are what I need.

I could tell you of the many species that live there, including the glorious purple hairstreak butterfly which feeds on oak flowers in midsummer
Maybe a flash of colour will pull you in.
Or oakmoss lichen, grey/green feathery wisps furring branches
Highly sensitive to pollution, its return signals the relative success of twentieth century Clean Air Acts.
If numbers are what we need, the English Oak supports over 2,300 different species,
Before we even start on bacteria and other microorganisms,
No other tree in the UK supports such an amazing diversity of life.
I’m sure the persuasive writing guidelines would approve of the statistics I could serve up here:
716 other types of lichen, and three types of native woodpeckers who nest in its canopy

Or perhaps some larger organisms will add more weight to the story:
Many birds and animals feed on acorns, including badger, deer, wild boar, squirrel and woodmouse.
From the corvid family, the flashily-suited Jay is particularly partial,
Often burying them for future sustenance; when forgotten, these caches sometimes germinate. Depressingly, online retailer Temu will sell you clutches of plastic acorns for 'craft' projects.
Or you could slip a real one into your pocket next time you pass an oak, it’s said to be good luck.

Oaks are often the tallest point in a country landscape,
More likely to be struck by lightning in a storm.
This may explain the many myths associating oaks with thunder gods,
(name checks here for Zeus and Thor)
In a macabre twist, oak’s hardwood properties made it an ideal choice when constructing America’s first electric chair ‘Old Sparky’.
Mechanised smiting of the unworthy.
As we face a mass extinction event maybe we need more and better stories,
Just maybe superstition has its place.
Sticky things belief systems, they hold stuff together.

How much we have taken from the oak throughout the centuries,
Houses and furniture to fill them,
Ships that sailed to plunder,
Medieval pigs snuffling in woodland to gorge on acorns,
The blackest ink from oak gall.
These trees are time-travellers, the ultimate long term thinkers,
But they are under threat.
Our ancient forests are in scraps and tatters,
Our warming climate story is written in tree rings

I take comfort from an oak tree precisely because it is oblivious to me and my human preoccupations.
I thrill to that interconnected web of life,
A razzle dazzle of biodiversity above my head and under my feet,
But to the tree my life is insignificant,
Unless I have a chainsaw in my hands of course.

The next Between the Lines poetry evening is at Bristol Folkhouse on Wednesday 7 October. They usually run on the first Wednesday of the month. It's free to attend. Sign up for a 3 minute slot from 7pm, readings start at 7.45pm. Book a free ticket here