Young Scots Writer o the Year 2025: Winning poem

Brambles

We niver cawed it a treehoose

it wisnae that. It wis oor treeswing.  

Ye coud climb tae the tap an’ yer boady wid keep score fir ye,  

yon bearer of scars an’ the blight ae time,  

an’ the branches wid grow, but niver change.  

Summers wur like honey an’ barley,  

sickly an’ no quite as nice maist days,  

but the brambles doon the back felt oor wee hauns  

pluck them fae the source ae life an’ scorn,  

the reclamation ae the groon.  

Nana wid take some fir her jam, an’ we wid eat the rest.  

A blithe blood ower yer fingertips, stainin yer wee green skirt,  

mixin in wae the warnins ye’d huv heedit aboot the prickliness  

ae oor mithers sweetest gairdians.  

Roon the treeswing we’d go again  

an’ faw fae the tire oan the rope.  

We wur there fir hoors oan end  

then yon streetlichts came aff  

an’ it wis hame again.  

A boay brocht oot a weapon oan anither boay.  

The blood oan oor hauns changed.  

It became real. It became roastin.  

an’ it burnt. It hurt.  

But A liked it.

It aw changed. The climate, oor childhood.  

A’ve been back, but no really.  

A’ve no spoken tae ma pals fir years.  

Noo A just sit wae ma Nana an’ ask how thay are.  

The treeswing wis cut doon years ago.  

An offerin tae a pagan god beggin fir childhood tae be digitised  

an’ fed tae a consumerist paradise.  

Heed ma warnin noo: Lay doon the knives,  

an’ turn away fae concern aboot who yer sharin a bathroom wae  

an’ luk. Luk ootside. Luk at thay brambles.  

How thay grow wae ye,

thay wance grew wae me an’ aw.