23/09/2026
Less than a week to Michaelmas - and a last chance to get those brambles....
"Dunnae eat the bramble son,
the devil’s pished on it”.
Past Michaelmas and I ken
grampa telt me this,
just a loon doon the bay.
The brambles sudden looking
less appealin’ than twa minutes afore,
images of one after ‘nother,
soiled wan by wan.
The air’d gone sharp then tae,
first thing and late,
it smelt different, the tang
the dew gone crisp und’foot,
e’en the ragwort losing its gowd,
ragged, shot, not like the August
stuff, the floo’er proud ‘n tall,
them autumn days best,
catchin’ the leaves, or tryin’,
oak spirallin’, in grasp, mebbe,
then awa’, the puff and pull of the wind,
kickin’ the beech mast,
spyin’ the gloss’ sheen,
of the conker, its split-chestnut case,
wondrin’ if this was it,
the champion, the best ‘un, worth tekkin’, picklin’.
I’d go on ma bike,
Tek piece, ginger,
crisps, Club, Trio, teacake,
‘tween brownin’ hedges,
thinnin’ verges. Doon the lochside,
blue skies, pure pale, post summer rains,
watchin’ the fisherman, castin’
and spoolin’, castin’ and spoolin’,
catchin’ a tiddler, something more.
Fingers purple,
skelfed, nettle-stung,
brambles big-berried and few.
Watchin’ fae jaspers.
Autumn’s the start ‘n’ the end,
the end ‘n’ the start,
mists clingin’ the Meadows,
the gathrin’ dank of the mulch,
birds with their berries,
hawthorn red, deep sloe-blue,
‘n’ ivy black.
The great-spotted, woodpecker,
black, white ‘n good sleekit,
right there on the feeder.
Ma’s bramble jelly, crumble ‘n’ cream.
The saison feels different,
smells different,
IS different. Rivers flowin’ faster,
of days closin’ in,
of cald and hib’nation,
but not quite just yet.
Richard Whitcomb
Shortlisted for the Scottish Wildlife Trust Words of the Wild Competition 2026
