Brummils (Brambles: Scots) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The hett buss touers wi brummils
It's lood wi the bizzin o bees

Ma swyty hauns haud a jeely jar
Stapped wi their blaik sweetness

Ma fingers an moo are stained poorple
Like Caesar's toga efter Brutus stabbed him

The ferm lane's a steer
O nettles, dockens, wabs an mochs

Mabairn-shanks are scrattit bi brummles' cleuks
Twa scabs on ma knees, gotten frae skytin on sharn

The brummils are blaik as jet
Blaik as the beads on granminnie's velvet choker

The brummles' leaves are etten an chittered bi gollachs
(Brummles are free, for ony that sikk tae pu them)
A girselowper clacks in the sheugh
Abune her, a wheeplin mavis
A solo yalla yeitie

I bite a brummle-it wummles
Like a nesty begeck in a soup bowl
A wirm in its mids, on ma tongue