Seven Scottish plants
Armeria maritima
Thrift is the star of the machair,
scattering pink balls of bloom
which jump from spiky tufts.
Don’t be miserly -
spend on thrift.
It needs no sailor-songs
or sea-salt seasoning,
but dry land suits it
once it’s beached.
Fragaria vesca
To gather wild strawberries in the woods
you need a very small basket, my dear.
Easier to bring them home
pre-eaten,
as memories of how each fruit
hit the tongue,
flooding your mouth with flavour.
Jam would seem a labour of Hercules
and leave the foxes unsweetened.
Crataegus monogyna
Hawthorn hedges
show the edges of ownership
in white lines of flourish
which cast a sickly sweetness
to each breeze.
The berries are an un-rorie red,
a modest shade,
and half-hidden by leaves.
Frost-softened, they form
a redwing’s feast.
Erica carnea
Bell heather banks
on a certain dryness.
Its grey-green leaves
are tight to the stems.
Its bells ring the changes
from palest pink to purple-red.
Whatever the colour,
bumble bees booze on them.
Sambucus nigra
Elder flowers
are champagne-sweet -
blanc-de-blanc -
unlike their rank-smelling stems.
The berries, picked black,
make a fine wine -
as gamey as Gamay -
and the more we pick
the less the birds overeat.
Let’s drink to slim thrushes.
Trollius europaeus
Beside a ditch,
surrounded by thousands
of its open cousins,
a solitary globeflower
displays its golden ball,
a closed churn
among the butter’s cups.
Anemone nemorosa
Among the first to fumble
in the waking of spring,
the wood anemones’
pink-flushed white stars
come out to twinkle
before the beech leaves
send them back to sleep.
Copyright © Colin Will 1996 and 2018
These poems were first published in Nomad magazine in 1996, but have not been published in any of my books.
Armeria maritima
Thrift is the star of the machair,
scattering pink balls of bloom
which jump from spiky tufts.
Don’t be miserly -
spend on thrift.
It needs no sailor-songs
or sea-salt seasoning,
but dry land suits it
once it’s beached.
Fragaria vesca
To gather wild strawberries in the woods
you need a very small basket, my dear.
Easier to bring them home
pre-eaten,
as memories of how each fruit
hit the tongue,
flooding your mouth with flavour.
Jam would seem a labour of Hercules
and leave the foxes unsweetened.
Crataegus monogyna
Hawthorn hedges
show the edges of ownership
in white lines of flourish
which cast a sickly sweetness
to each breeze.
The berries are an un-rorie red,
a modest shade,
and half-hidden by leaves.
Frost-softened, they form
a redwing’s feast.
Erica carnea
Bell heather banks
on a certain dryness.
Its grey-green leaves
are tight to the stems.
Its bells ring the changes
from palest pink to purple-red.
Whatever the colour,
bumble bees booze on them.
Sambucus nigra
Elder flowers
are champagne-sweet -
blanc-de-blanc -
unlike their rank-smelling stems.
The berries, picked black,
make a fine wine -
as gamey as Gamay -
and the more we pick
the less the birds overeat.
Let’s drink to slim thrushes.
Trollius europaeus
Beside a ditch,
surrounded by thousands
of its open cousins,
a solitary globeflower
displays its golden ball,
a closed churn
among the butter’s cups.
Anemone nemorosa
Among the first to fumble
in the waking of spring,
the wood anemones’
pink-flushed white stars
come out to twinkle
before the beech leaves
send them back to sleep.
Copyright © Colin Will 1996 and 2018
These poems were first published in Nomad magazine in 1996, but have not been published in any of my books.
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