hands
I wondered if my Japanese maple would come into leaf this spring. Pot-bound for years, my Dad brought the wee tree up for me last summer and planted it beside my caravan. It quickly took its place in the garden, a quivering carousel of small outstretched hands. However, Cumbria to Lochinver is quite a shift in latitude and I wasn’t sure if it would survive the deep cold spells of a Sutherland winter.
At first I thought it hadn’t. Some of the branch tips looked dead and, as the deadnettle and cerastium came into bloom around it, it remained bare. But then – one by two by three – small strips of life began to emerge. Like the autumn in reverse, these leaves initially looked withered, hanging limply like crumpled rags. Only their colour was strong, a vivid crimson like vegetal blood. Slowly they’ve unfurled, from rags to red claws, becoming rosier and greener, and finally reaching out like tiny tender hands.
Soon, perhaps, the whole tree will flourish – produce more leaves, lengthen its branches. It will be good to see it confirm its strength and presence, yet, for a while, I liked not knowing what would happen. I enjoyed the uncertainty, the lack of surety of the transition.
Now change is fully upon us. The sun rolls northward, summer comes on. Life becomes more defined. Soon I will gain clarity in the clear summer light and extend myself outward, firmly and with resolve. At the moment, though, I’m reluctant to leave the beauty of this strange season, the gentle possibility coiled in these emerging foliate hands. I will miss this time when all was gathered, held in potential, not yet sprung.
Lochinver, Assynt, Scotland
2nd June 2025
