Words of the Wild 2025 - Shortlist

2025 Competition Shortlist

In association with

English - Junior

Songs of Heather, Wind and Other Such Things

By Rosie Howat, 13 years old

I’ve noticed that there are songs in everything. The way the wind whistles like a flute through the bare branches of trees in November. The way the ocean beats like timpani in the summer storms of August. The barely audible notes of autumn leaves as they gently fly on the breeze in October. When the first snowflakes of January drift down from pearly candyfloss clouds, each coming to rest on the ground with quiet sighs. I hear it all. Maybe everyone does. I wouldn’t know. People don’t generally tend to talk about these things. At least not the people I’ve met. Standing in the heather while the rain trickles down my coat with the gentle rings like a triangle. Listening to the lazy humming of the bumblebees as they explore the wilderness of a flower garden. Bees like music. That’s why they’re always humming to an unknown melody. I suppose that not everyone might think of these as songs. But I bet that nature doesn’t see our music as a song either.

It happened in spring, as a lot of memorable moments seem to- about as many as in any other season, really. I was out on the heath with my family and we were going for a walk. It was drizzling, as usual, and we were soaked. But we didn’t mind. The sound of the water dripping from the new leaves and splashing on the rocks was as comforting and familiar as a bedtime story. If a bedtime story was cold and wet and a little bit uncomfortable. I pulled my hood up, though my hair was so wet that there wasn’t much point, and reached out to pick a sprig of heather. The little purple bells rang in the wind, the sound of silver chimes.

But that wasn’t the only song I could hear. There was a new voice joining the chorus of outdoors. Not the swish of the wind. Nor the grinding of distant cars on the rattling roads. Manmade things don’t have very nice songs in my opinion. They just sound angry and loud and… and human. Nature’s songs are far better. But this sound was natural. I could feel it in the way my fingertips seemed to buzz. Just slightly. I wandered towards the sound, my little brother following me. He knows about the songs too. I taught him. It’s important that those of us who can hear the songs make sure that others know them too. Otherwise they might be lost all together. We clambered over rocks, our boots slippery with mud and rain. My brother almost fell at one point. I grabbed his arm, but he pulled me off balance and we tumbled into the soft, springy heather. I heard the bells peal reproachfully and muttered an apology.

We stood back up slowly, aching a little from the fall, and kept on going, dashing through the bracken and avoiding the gorse with its prickly, golden trumpets. We ran for what felt like ages (although I knew it wasn’t) but finally, finally, we found the singer. And it was even better than we’d hoped. A stream, gushing out of the rocks. It seemed to have all the best sounds in it. At turns it whispered like a piccolo and blasted like the bagpipes. We followed the stream, passing saplings bent sideways by the winter winds from a few months before. My brother sighed as we walked. “Poor trees. They didn’t have time to grow strong and brave enough to stand a chance against winter.” I gave him a hug, my body temporarily shielding him against the rain, which wasn’t just a drizzle anymore.

“Don’t worry,” I told him, “They’re ok. It’s just that they’re stretching. Maybe, when they are strong and thick, we can come back and build a den!” He perked up at this, his mind clearly filled with possibilities for the best den that the world has ever seen.

“Will it have a swing?”

“Of course it’ll have a swing. And we can use rocks as chairs! Just think, we could have a picnic there!” He beamed with delight, entranced by plans for what we could make.

We kept following the stream. It swished downhill, taking little turns here and there. It was definitely trying to lead us somewhere. But where? Luckily, the stream didn’t have much further to go. It wound round a hill like a silver ribbon, speckled with raindrops. Our parents were following. They had umbrellas out. We didn’t need umbrellas. We were just walking. The wet didn’t matter. It still doesn’t.

We made it to the other side of the hill and gasped in pure joy. The stream had been leading somewhere! Like a rainbow in one of my story books! Except the pot of gold here was far better than any metal. A pond. Perfect and round, covered in bright green algae like moss on a tree trunk. More trees surrounded it, their trunks bent but firm. Den trees. Rocks sat the by the pond’s edge, speckled with lichen and a few bird droppings. It was beautiful. It was singing. The drumbeats of rain, the bells of the stream, the flutes in the trees and the gorse trumpets. The animals were also part of this wonderful, untamed, undirected ensemble. There were the voices of bees, hiding in their holes. There were the songs of the woodpigeons, soft and mournful. The wild was performing. And we were its audience.

We still come back to the pond. We made a den, though it has fallen down a few times. There’s a swing too! My brother and I sometimes argue about who can have first go. There’s no algae in the pond anymore. We cleaned it and now there are frogs living there. There’ll hopefully be tadpoles in spring. We picnic there on sunny days and it’s just as wonderful as we thought.

I love the songs of nature. They call to everyone. It’s just up to us to listen.

FINALIST

Barra and Me

By Rowan Mort, 10 years old

This poem is my journey, from source to sea.

The beginning is our wee Barra house which means a lot to me. It's small, with a porthole window, Lots of beasties too, but I love the memories that it holds so I'm sharing it with you. I stand at the big picture window, and my heart fills with love, For the wild scene I have, below the horizon, and above.

I slip on my wellies, which is a wee bit tough to do, Then head out the door, it's like I'm seeing it all brand new.

The beautiful view I'm given and the awe which it holds, I'm taking you on my journey as the scenery unfolds.

I swing on the metal gate to open it all the way.

But I have to close it back again so the cows and sheep don't stray. I drift through the field with the company of flowers all wild. Some are a wee bit jaggy but most are pretty and mild.

The lovely purple orchids, the primrose and harebells blue, They sway like a melody and I like to sing along with them too.

I take a careful step, past the old rickety gate, and into this magical world where I feel no hate.

My eyes catch this wee grey head pop up to say hello, I imagine us playing, the seal and I, in the clear water below. I wander down the path, to my village made of rocks,

There's a cafe, a school,

And a house with door that you can knock.

I could play there all day in this wild world of mine, Just exactly as my mum did but that's going back in time!

I kick off my wellies and slide off my socks, I abandon them for home time, safe in my house on the rocks.

I step on the sand and feel it warm from the sun, My lovely beach so white and clean, the perfect playground for fun.

I walk to the sparkling water, the turquoise jewel of sea.

I dip in my foot, and feel my breath leave me.

And even though the water has made my foot numb with cold, It still warms me on the inside with the magic that it holds.

This is the end of my journey, in the sea which carries my belief, That these hebridean waters bring joy And peace, And relief.

Then I'm woken from my dreaming and hear a shout for me. It's my mum,

Calling from the Barra house,

It's time to return for tea.

FINALIST

The River Remembers

By Jessica-Joy Ibarra-Nagy, 15 years old

It begins high in the Cairngorms, where snow still clings to the shoulders of the land, Where silence is broken only by the trickle of meltwater finding its first breath. I stand there, alone but not lonely, boots damp with dew, Watching the river born not with a roar, but a whisper

A silver thread in the heather, weaving its way down.

They call it the Dee.

To me, it’s more than a name or a line on a map. It’s memory.

It’s the river I walked beside with Grandad, hand in hand, Back when he still knew who I was, Back when stories poured from him as easily as water over stone.

We would start at Braemar, boots muddy, eyes wide. He’d point to the dipper bobbing in the shallows,

“Look at that little bird there,” he’d whisper.

“She’s the river’s musician listen, she sings before spring.”

The current quickens, and so do my thoughts.

By Ballater, ospreys wheel overhead

Sharp-winged prayers etched against the clouds.

One dives, a flash, a splash, A trout snatched mid-stream, life feeding life. It feels like a blessing, that moment, that bird.

I wish he could have seen it.

The river runs on, and so do I. Past ancient pines and foxglove-dotted banks, Where red squirrels leap like fire through the trees And dragonflies patrol like sentries of summer.

I find a pine cone on the path, cracked open. Grandad once told me fairies lived in the trees.

I almost believe it again.

At Banchory, the river grows bolder, Wide and full of purpose now.

Salmon leap here bold arcs of hope against the flow.

I watch a boy beside the water, his father’s hand resting on his shoulder. He laughs as a fish breaks the surface.

I wonder if this will be the day he remembers

When he's older, and someone else is forgetting.

We had sat here once too, Grandad and I. He told me the river was like a story

“You have your beginning, your middle, your end, but it’s never truly over. It just changes form. Becomes part of something else.” He looked out at the water, eyes glassy. I think he already knew what was coming.

By the time the Dee reaches Aberdeen, It smells of salt and gull-cries. The sea calls it home, and it answers Not with reluctance, but with grace.

Here, fresh meets brine, and the river dissolves into the open blue. It’s the end, and yet, it isn’t.

I sit on the grey shore, stones smooth in my hands. The wind tastes of seaweed and distance. A seal bobs in the surf, curious and unbothered.

I imagine telling Grandad,

“I followed the river like we always said we would. From source to sea. From memory to sky.”

Somewhere in the tide, I feel his voice, Not sharp or sudden, but soft Like mist on the hills, Like water over stone.

Scotland's World of Wonders

By Cara Simnett, 10 years old

The sun shone on the waterfall, creating rainbows that danced across the water like nymphs. Rhona swam beneath it, laughing when she got too close and the currents swept her away. This was her favourite place to be on a warm summer’s day, playing in the water she had grown up with, learnt to trust and love. She lived out in the wild, roaming free in the forests of Scotland. As the sun started to dip below the horizon, she pulled herself out, collapsing onto the bank. She lay there, watching the sun sink and the sky grow dark. Night time descended on the world around her.

When Rhona woke, it was just after midnight. She watched in wonder as glow-worms filled the sky, creating millions of extra stars that twinkled as bright as the moon. The pool she had been swimming in reflected the scene around her, rippling calmly. Slowly, she sat up; smiling as owls swooped low, catching their prey. Rhona imagined what it would be like to have wings, to be at the mercy of the wind and sky. Eventually, she drifted back to sleep dreaming of life as an animal, and the joys and sacrifices that come with it.

The sound she woke up to was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard. She opened her eyes to see hundreds of birds above her, all singing their part of the dawn chorus. She watched as their formation shifted, like pictures in a story. Rhona saw colours she had never even dreamed of, flying above her head. It was as if they had come from completely different worlds, exotic islands, icelocked lands, the sun itself. She sat there, watching, only half believing what she was seeing.

When the sun had risen completely, Rhona ran down the bank and threw herself into the water, enjoying the refreshing temperature. She watched the bubbles drift up around her until her head broke the surface. She lay there, on her back, looking up into the clear blue sky. Then she heard a noise. Carefully, she turned and gasped silently when she saw a deer, tawny brown with magnificent antlers protruding from his head. He looked up and their eyes met, his were a deep shade of brown. He went back to drinking from the pool, inspecting his reflection in the sunlit water. He took a long drink while Rhona gazed at him from the centre of the pool. Water gave life to many animals across the world; deer, birds, fish, humans and many others. It was essential for Planet Earth to thrive.

Rhona loved Scotland, the feeling of freedom and the wilderness of her home. But most of all, she loved the water, as a way to cool off and to see animals she had never witnessed before, to see life beyond human activity. The many incredible lives around her have always fascinated her, and she knew she was lucky to experience the wildlife around her. Everything seemed perfect, but she knew that one day, she’d have to fight to protect it, and if it came to it, she would.

SHORTLISTED

“The Mighty Esk”

By William Barlow, 9 years old

There is a river called the Esk, Every local would agree, the Esk is the best!

Why? Let me tell you its story.

Of the Esk’s glory, well…very shortly!

Water has power, memories… it’s alive, As it finds its way, it strives… it drives!

One of these ‘drivers’ is the Esk, So sit down, relax and hear the rest!

The Esk was born from the Black and White Esk, In Castle O’er Forest where it is so picturesque.

The Black Esk rises on the mighty northeast slope, Of Jock’s Shoulder so full of scope.

The White Esk rises on the southern Scottish slopes, Of Ettrick pen, so steep, rocks rough as rope, The Esk then flows southeast through pretty Eskdale, Passing bonny Langholm on its magical trail.

The ‘Muckle Toon’ and the Esk, go side by side, Without Esk, Langholm would sigh.

So many people rely on its waters everyday, To fish, to hunt, to swim, to play!

Crossing under bridges; Duchess and Skippers,

If you look carefully, you can see herons and dippers!

Out of Langholm, the Esk meets some friends, the Tarras, then the Liddle on its way to the end. Eventually crossing the border to England it goes, Through the long Longtown it knows where to flow!

Far from its birth, its grown in girth as it drains to the Solway Firth.

From source to sea, what a journey it has been!

Through the Esk valley, its been quite a rally!

The magic of water never ceases to amaze,

As it makes its path in a variety of ways.

Born from two rivers, but together as one, so strong.

The Mighty Esk.

SHORTLISTED

Sea

sway in

By Claire Rogers, 13 years old

Waves rise high beneath the morning sun,

A dance of water, where the sea is spun. The salty breeze whispers tales of the deep, Calling the brave, from their slumber and sleep.

A board in hand, the heart starts to race, With dreams of the ocean, and the thrill of the chase.

Out in the blue, where the wild waters play, The pulse of the tides, where the surfers sway.

The swell begins rolling, a natural crest, In the arms of the ocean, my soul feels at rest.

I paddle with purpose, each stroke filled with glee, As the horizon unfolds, it’s just the waves and me.

With a sudden explosion, the wave breaks in might, I catch the clear curl, my spirit takes flight. A moment of magic, suspended in time, The sea sings a rhythm, an unspoken rhyme.

I glide through the water, in harmony found, The roar of the ocean, a sweet, soothing sound. With the sun on my skin and the wind in my hair, Each swell that I conquer, a song I can share.

The laughter of friends echoes over the swells, In this vast ocean universe, every heart swells.

The bond that we share, in the dance of the tide, Is a treasure unmeasured, a joy we can’t hide.

From dawn until dusk, as the colors alight, The canvas of sunset, a breathtaking sight. The sky becomes painted in hues of pure gold, As stories of surfing, together we're told.

In this realm of the waves, where worries subside, We ride the vast waters, with the ocean as guide. The sea calls us back, with its eternal embrace, In the heart of the surfer, we find our true place.

So here at the shoreline, where the land meets the sea, We find our connection, wild and free. With a spirit unbroken, and courage to be, We’ll cherish the moments, out surfing at sea.

SHORTLISTED

Our Safe Place

By Eryn Finlay-Grant, 14 years old

As I walk through the darkening streets of my city home, I am not afraid.

At least, I’m not afraid of the football crowd, spilling out of the live sports pub like a pot boiling over. I’m not afraid of the person sitting in the abandoned doorway of a burnt out building, surely far too young to be so destitute. Though I am afraid, to tell the truth, of the city itself. The poisonous concrete covering everything you can see for miles. The cars passing by me even now, their toxic fumes seeping into the air and going quickly up into the atmosphere. I shake out of my reverie and continue walking towards our effort, our safe place. I glance around me and then enter the warren of back alleys, hidden routes and trick dead ends to reach the large patch of forgotten land that we have claimed as our own. As I slip through the tiny exit of a smaller alley I see the other children and young people trusted to help look after this place until it’s ready. I see my closest friend, sitting on the small pontoon reaching out into the centrepiece of our little corner of nature, right in the heart of Glasgow. The large pond that bubbles up from an underground well looks magical in the dying sunlight. It reflects all the beautiful colours of sky onto a mirrored surface, smooth but for the splashing leap of trout flashing up to eat the plentiful flies hovering over the water. I meander over to my friend, stopping occasionally to appreciate a wildflower or watch a toad make its way across the path. My friend is the founder of this place, and when he discovered it during one of his then nightly wanderings he saw its potential immediately. We started a group, our goal to create a safe place for nature and person alike. We tested the water, and then built up the banks to create the perfect wildlife pond. We all made compost and brought all the leaf mulch we could carry, improving the soil quality until we could start planting native wildflowers and other plants. We researched, and read and worked and dedicated our evenings and weekends for almost three years now, and it’s almost ready. Soon we’ll show people what you can do if you put your mind to it, the difference that can be made. I sit beside my friend, take my socks and shoes off to dip my feet in the water, letting the tadpoles nibble at my toes. As I look across the water at the paradise that we’ve made, I think of how far we’ve come, but also just how far we need to go. But it’s no crime to just sit here and appreciate the incredible beauty of this tiny world we’ve created, just for a little while.

SHORTLISTED

Raindrops

By Amelia Rimicane, 7 years old

Rain, rain, rain drips all day long, Adventure starts, as the rain drips a song.

I put on my yellow coat, I open my heart to venture,

Now I can jump in muddy puddle, sail boats, bake a mud pie, Down the drain goes the rain, as my misery washes away and boringness fly.

Rain, rain, rain drips all day long,

Oh my goodness, the rain singing me a lullaby, Prance in the middle of July, stars high in the sky.

Spit-spat, pitter-pat, rain drops performing backflips on my windowsill.

A Moment Alone With The Sea

By Mahalia Newton, 16 years old

The soft timpani of rain on the shallow sand rose like a lullaby through the cold coastal air. On the cliffs high above, a thick labyrinth of gorse was merging with the dark storm clouds. A smell like warm coconut spilled out of the tiny yellow flowers and drifted down onto the beach. I crawled under the blue canvas tongue of the tent and lay down inside to watch the waves blurring against the shore. I wished I had more time to spend with this place. It was always the same whenever I had a moment alone with the sea. Everything that has happened to me since days of my early childhood, melts away, and I'm back in the harbour in my then home town of Stonehaven, chasing my shadow through the water. I remember the sounds of the boats's engines, throbbing against the current.

It's quieter here, thankfully. Boats were fine when I was a kid, desperate for excitement. But I didn't know then that they were oozing poison into the waters around me. Now I'll always prefer listening to the falling rain, and the advancing tide. Because I know it is a privilege to live in a world where such things can still be witnessed.

English - Adult

FINALIST

Otter Boy

By Abby Kumar

The river whispers secrets: a hush, a glug, a gurgle. Not like human words, more like a sigh against the ancient stones of Aviemore Bridge. I prefer its flowing rhythm to the too-bright, too-loud world of school. The river knows its path, even when it meanders; Mum says I'm not lost, just walking sideways.

It was a Wednesday, I think, when I first saw the otter. Or maybe Tuesday, but Wednesdays smell of pine and potato waffles, so Wednesday it was. I was on the track between Boat of Garten and Loch Insh, where the trees part and the water slows, catching its breath. A flick, a flash of slick fur, two paws raised like a tiny magician, then gone, then back. Not a seal, too quick, too fluid. It moved like my happy thoughts, fast and curling, like a tune before you know the words.

I kept it to myself at first, not a secret, just mine. My words are slow, like thick soup, getting stuck. But the otter, Firth I named him, didn't need me to speak. He returned, near the railway bridge, whiskers like commas, eyes like ink drops, twisting like a question mark in the water. I followed, always keeping him in sight.

My blue notebook, smelling of rain and adorned with a dragonfly, became my otter journal. Long body. Twitchy tail. Yellow teeth, sharp. Chirpy sound, like a laughing yawn. Eyes like drops of ink. I wanted to follow him all the way to the sea. Mum said Fochabers was too far to walk alone, but she hadn’t mentioned otters.

Each morning, my rucksack held a label-less water bottle, a green banana, my notebook, and sometimes Grandpa’s broken compass. I let the River Spey lead me: through Nethy Bridge, where stones are smooth like boiled sweets; past the osprey centre, where the sky is feathered; down glens smelling of sheep and metal; to gorse bushes popping like firecrackers. And always, just out of reach, Firth.

One day, I watched Firth hunt. A blur, a snap, and the fish was no longer a fish. It filled me with a quiet completeness, like the final puzzle piece slotting into place. That night, I told Mum, "Otter. I saw it." "Again? That’s wonderful, hen," she replied. I like 'hen'. I don't want to be a chicken, but the sound is warm.

People on the path would ask, "Are you lost?" "No." "Are you with someone?" "Yes. Kind of." They never saw the otter.

In Grantown, I bought oatcakes. The shop woman spoke of weather, and I nodded, like Dad used to when he didn't want to answer, a silent assertion. Past Grantown, the river’s voice grew louder, more stones, more bite. I slipped on the bank, my trousers muddy, my notebook soggy. Firth reappeared, standing on a rock, looking annoyed, like a teacher. Then he dove, and I laughed, a sudden hiccup of sound that bounced off the trees and came back twice.

We went to Fochabers one weekend: the air tasted of salt and coins. The trees were different, bare… The river’s voice widened, transforming. Firth vanished for two days, and I feared I’d imagined him, but my notebook, where I never lied, proved otherwise.

Finally mum agreed to take me to Spey Bay, where the river surrenders to the sea, where fresh and salt water converse. The tide was out, revealing rocks veiled in green secrets. Then I saw him, not in the river, but in the vast blue of the sea. Firth, still him, but smaller now against the immensity. He circled, then looked back at me. And I said, clearly, "Goodbye." He didn't answer, but he didn't need to.

On the train back to Aviemore, clutching my notebook, a lady asked about my day. "I followed the otter to the sea." She smiled, "That sounds like a brilliant story." I showed her page twenty-three, Firth curled like a question mark beside a stone. "You’re a good observer," she said. I liked that word. Observer. It felt like a superpower.

At home, Mum asked, "Did you find what you were looking for, then?” "No," I said, then, "Yes." It wasn't about finding; it was about following. Firth is out there still, between wave and sky, and I am different now.

I speak more at school, sometimes humming, sometimes drawing Firth on the whiteboard. The teacher thought he was a dog, but I didn’t correct her. It's about what I saw. A new quiet boy started, he was chewing his sleeves like I used to. I gave him a drawing of a tree by a a river with a dark shape swimming. The next day, he left a crow feather on my desk, smelling of cold air and old stories. That's how I knew we were friends.

I still walk to the river, a small stretch between woods and surprised cows. I close my eyes and listen. Hhhsshhh. Gl-gl-glunk. The river talks. I write it all down. And sometimes, when the wind is right, I swear I hear a laugh in the water. A short, sharp sound, like a yawning laugh. Like a goodbye that never quite ends. Like an otter remembering a boy.

FINALIST

For a Moment

By David Weinczok

A seal’s eye met mine today and for a moment

I joined it in Hildaland beneath the rösts and ripples of the swirling Sound

we danced translucent in the spindrift spun a ceilidh of the ship-breaking tides on the stepped shore we traded skins that one may reflect the world in the others’ lustre

A merlin’s eye met mine today and for a moment

I soared towards the scent of a mouse in the machair and turned the marram blades round it slick as oiled feathers

I moved as giants once did effortless between the isles over causeways of salt and wind and haar the land below became a strewment my wings a fleeting symphony

A sillock’s eye met mine today and for a moment I flowed as quicksilver through a school of mirrored selves poured into the cold dark deep

Steady as a pulse we rocked in the ebb the shoreline’s quaking rhythm set my scales trembling like the hooves of white horses high above

The moon’s eye met mine today and for a moment

I rose luminous as the last sward of sun-fire trickled down beyond the day’s reckoning

As the stars spilled out from the ladle of my crescent I watched little wandering forms traverse the clefts between dunes by the pale light of my beacon

An otter’s eye met mine today and for a moment I slid sleekit through the kelp and unfurled a trove of riches to be sundered on my softness

Seamless I parted air and stone and sea until the three elements of being converged within me poised at the union of the worlds I found all wondrous

FINALIST

The Heart of the Mud

By Fiona Ritchie Walker

August 2024. I follow the line of my sister’s arm. There it is, the osprey, hovering in Angus blue. Sudden dive, small splash and up it comes, fish in beak.

It’s osprey sighting evening at Montrose Basin Visitor Centre and I’m happy my visit home means I can be part of it. But as I watch the osprey being mobbed by crows, my mind takes off in another direction. How can one Scottish sea loch, a small circle on the map, be home to so much life and at the heart of my family too?

How can water which ebbs and flows, making mud wet and water dry be the compass point for returning pink-footed geese, common terns, swallows, chiffchaffs – and me?

Every journey north, as soon as the sea loch that is Montrose Basin comes into sight, I know that I’m home.

My father, Syd Walker, knew that wonder too. The Basin captivated this Birmingham-born artist who moved to live in his wife, Elizabeth’s home town in the 1950s. When he opened a pottery and shop in Bridge Street, the Basin, with its ever-changing trim of fields, trees and distant mountains, was his view through the workshop window.

My sister, Kirsten, and I grew up spending summer lunchtimes at the Basin. Our parents picked us up from primary school and we’d go to ‘the back of the island’ for a picnic on Rossie Island, where the South Esk flows through the Basin to the sea.

It fascinated me that this huge expanse of water would rise and fall, dictated by the moon, without anyone turning on a tap or pulling a plug. It didn’t smell like the beach on the other side of the spit of land that is Montrose. Here the air felt thicker, more alive, a place where two worlds meet. The fresh river water from the Grampians and the salty sweep of the North Sea being married by the tide. It was land and water that fought a battle twice a day and each of them won.

Dad told us tales of the Basin. The Lurgies, a swampy world to the west of where the river came in, and north of it the Slunks. We’d peer to see if we could find the remains of Dronner’s Dyke, an ambitious plan in the 1600s to turn part of the Basin into farmland, until a storm said to be called up by local witch, Meggie Cowie, put an end to this scheme of taming the tides.

As we girls grew, so did Dad’s dream of walking to the centre of the place which had captivated his imagination for all those years. Armed with pencils, paper, camera and map, plus Basin ranger, Rick Goater, as his guide, Dad’s preparations for creating a panoramic painting took shape.

Ten panels, a 62-foot circular artwork that people could walk into, showing the town’s skyline with its distinctive Steeple, the wide sweep of mud and water, land and sky – all as seen from the centre of the sea loch.

It took two years to complete and people flocked to see it. The panoramic painting broke all visitor records for Montrose Museum and Art Gallery when it went on display in 1996. The Basin shoreline

found a new home on the gallery floor. Stuffed birds borrowed from the museum collection sat beside dried seaweed, sand and shells. With a boardwalk for visitors to the centre of the panorama, Dad’s dream was complete.

The Basin experience travelled to France and was exhibited in Luzarches, Montrose’s twin town, but, too big to find a permanent home, ended up in storage. Fast forward more than 20 years to 2018. With Mum and Dad now gone, Montrose Museum ask us sisters if they can display the panoramic painting once more.

Opening boxes we find assembly instructions, Dad’s map. Could we? Follow in his footsteps, west to east, to the centre of the mud?

Montrose Basin Visitor Centre now organises Basin walks, so we put on wellies, carry Dad’s marked map, and join Anna and Richard who guide our way.

I scribble notes every time we pause.

‘Landscape, moonscape, white sky.

A breath of rain. Sun’s out again.

Barnacled stones and shells.

A tiny crab scuttles, disappears.

Eel grass carpet rolled and felted at our feet.

Rippled sand.’

A herring gull shrieks above us. Two mute swans fly by. The air whips our faces, spins hair into salty straw. Patterned mudscapes stretch ahead and behind. I feel myself, like a tide, being drawn in, mesmerised.

My sister and I link arms, take photos. Remember Dad. Remember Mum. When we return to dry land, we feel ready to get the painting out of storage, start its assembly.

There are lumps in our throats as we read the instructions in Dad’s distinctive hand. Gradually, the Basin begins to take shape. We place each panel upright and the skyline grows, mudflats emerge.

Now a new generation becomes part of the picture as my grandchildren, Lucy and Reuben, sit in the middle, pose for photographs. For three weeks the boardwalk is full of people sharing Dad’s dream, then the paintings are back in storage, still waiting for a permanent exhibition space to be found.

“Look! It’s the osprey again!” Kirsten calls me back to the moment, but I take a last look at the Basin shore, imagine the shadow shapes turning into parents watching as two little girls giggle and skim stones.

SHORTLISTED

The Last Cast

By Jon Feeney

I could never quite remember if it was Loch Goil or Loch Long. He just called it oor bit, as if the water itself was made for just us.

We’d park the car, unload the gear and walk down to the water’s edge. Our solemn pilgrimage.

It was often quiet, save for the birds. Distant calls that felt a million miles away.

He’d say “Aye, the loch’s old. Older than your da – older than me, even. You’ve got to show it respect.”

I didn’t really understand him then. I just liked the way he said it.

He carried the flask. It was old, dented, weathered. I carried the rod.

The rod was too big for me back then. My hands barely wrapped around the grip, my knuckles pale.

He taught me how to cast properly. Not by telling, but by doing.

“It’s no aboot bein’ strong,” he’d say.

I would see him cast. Smooth, fluid, like drawing a paintbrush through the air.

He’d then pass it to me, and I’d try to copy what I’d just seen. I’d snag it on branches, my own jacket –everywhere but on the water.

I never caught anything the first summer, but I didn’t mind.

“Dinnae worry. It’s no really aboot the fish anyhow.”

Eventually, I got the hang of it. It took about three summers, mind. But that was fine – I was eleven; there was no rush back then.

He never once complained.

We still went over the years. Not every summer and not always to oor bit, but it was enough. Enough that it never stopped feeling like ours.

He got slower, of course. His back would give him bother on some of the steeper paths. Eventually I’d carry all the kit without asking.

Likewise, he never once complained.

The loch had changed too. Not much, really. But enough if you paid attention. If you knew the water like we did.

The rock we used to perch on sank deeper into the silt. A new patch of thistles grew by the layby. Some summers, the midges were unbearable.

“Definitely worse than last year,” he’d say. Every year.

I saw a lot over those years. I learned even more.

There was a heron that would always land on the same rock. Solitary and patient.

Once, we saw an otter in the reeds. Just a silhouette and a ripple – then it vanished.

Granda would say they only showed themselves if they trusted you. I kept an eye out every time after that, but I never saw him again.

Of course we were catching fish now, too. Usually brown trout but sometimes we’d haul some salmon. He mentioned once or twice I should learn how to cut and prepare a fish. Though that’d be a lesson for another day.

That day didn’t ever come.

I missed his last cast. Missed his funeral, if I’m honest. Trains, work, life stuff it all got in the way. And the longer I left it, the harder it became to go back. I always meant to. To see if that heron was still there, check on the thistle patch, maybe catch that otter again.

But I didn’t. Not for years.

When I finally went back, it was early spring.

Our rock was now half-hidden under the mud, but it was still there.

I stood there for a while, just listening. Watching. I felt like I was waiting for something to happen. I brought our old rod. The reel stuck a little, but it still worked.

I cast. Just the once.

It wasn’t far. I’d gotten rusty, obviously.

But it landed quietly in the water. The current tugged back on the line, letting me know it was there.

He used to say the loch was older than all of us. I used to think it meant that we were small. But maybe it meant something else.

Maybe it meant we belonged to it. Not just me and him but all of us, everything. The heron, the thistles, that elusive otter. We shared its space. Its air. Its life. Just how present it felt being there. And maybe the water remembered back.

I watched the water glide by me faintly. Slow and steady, carrying my line further out.

Not fleeting, just… moving on.

I didn’t reel back in. I just stood there, and watched it go.

SHORTLISTED

Distracted

By Eleanor Stacey

From my desk, I can see a stretch of river. It has come from the north, winding through the moors before ending up outside my window. It's nearly at its end; in under two miles it joins the Clyde, constrained between the rusted metal walls of the Yorkhill Basin. But I just see a curve of brown water overlooked by our office on one bank, and a walkway on the other. My bit.

The window is open from first thing in the morning. A song thrush is singing from up in the trees clinging on to the steep southern bank. Louder than that repetitive chorus is the wren. I've got my eye in now, and I look straight across the water to the bare branch that lies clear of the foliage. The wren is there, tail up, the song tripping over itself. People walk past, heading for the subway station or up to one of the West End cafés, seemingly unaware. One day it bursts into song on the edge of the balcony outside the window, much nearer than its usual perch. I nearly fall off my chair. How can such a small bird produce such an amplitude? It seems to defy physics.

I finally manage to catch my boss at a quiet moment; I've been meaning to ask him something for a while. I am listening to the reply, but the river is in my peripheral vision. A movement, and I turn away with a shout, the camera that sits on the edge of my desk in my hand. Colleagues bolt out of chairs and line up against the glass. An otter disappears into the brown swirl, pointed tail the last part to vanish. It surfaces again at the far bank, sheltered in a muddy hollow, and I snap some pictures. I can't tell what it's eating. It makes short work of it though, and dives again. We spot its head downstream once more, and then it's away. For the rest of the week, every splash gives me a little rush; it is usually a spaniel that has squeezed through a gap in the railings.

The first ducklings of the year arrive. They move in spurts, rising up out of the water on frantic feet to catch up with the mother. My pictures are blurred, but I keep them, a snapshot pausing the constant motion.

Next come the goosanders. Pairs pass most days, sleek and slicked-back, riding the currents downstream then flying fast and low back up to wherever the top is for them. But today it is just the female, and with her a mass of chicks. Several ride on her back, preening and squabbling. She comes to the bank and they are tipped unceremoniously backwards, landing with a splash before scrambling out onto the mud. I come in early one morning to get a head start on work, but end up starting late. On the bank opposite the female is sitting, wings slightly out. Fluffy heads peek out from underneath her. My camera comes out before my laptop; I zoom in from my spot at the window. She looks serene. A harsh cry shatters this; she hurries into the water with the chicks, shepherding them into the deeper water. A heron swoops low, pterodactyl wings beating hard at the last minute. It leaves empty-beaked, and I breathe easier. I don't want to witness the inevitable. I return to my seat.

Spreadsheets across both screens. In the corner of my eye, colour. A bullfinch hovers against the glass, chunky beak seeking out the bounty caught in the webs around the window frame. Striking with the pinkish-orange against steely grey and pure black, I take a moment to look for the subtler

female that is usually nearby. She is in the hawthorn tree that juts out over the water, gentle call just audible.

A meeting stretches on, and I wonder how many more slides there are. There are enough people online for me to switch my webcam off unnoticed and glance into the hawthorn tree. It is full of movement and noise; a flock of tits is passing through. Blue tits rasp in the upper branches whilst great tits pluck insects from leaves. I see coal tits hanging upside down, tiny acrobats. The meeting rumbles on. Something high pitched and frenetic seeps around my headphones. Long-tailed tits flit in and out of sight. I reach for the camera, but they are already moving on.

High-pitched, staccato whistles yank me from the report I'm typing; I spot a flash of blue. 'Kingfisher' I call out before I can stop myself. Others glance across, but it has disappeared round a bend. Later I hear the call again, and I see it land on a branch of willow that is fighting its way out over the water between stands of giant hogweed and Himalayan balsam. The branch bobs and sways, but the kingfisher's head remains perfectly still. I manage a picture through the window, almost in focus, before it is gone in another blue streak. Cyclists on the path are focused on weaving around pedestrians; they don't look down and see the bird, resplendent in orange and blue.

My task list grows, but I don't want to ignore the sights and sounds of the river. I can't bring myself to put my headphones in and turn up the volume. Devote myself fully to tenders and formatting. The blinds stay up until the afternoon sun is too strong, and even then it is usually someone else who lowers them as I squint at my screen. I don't want to miss a thing that passes through this patch, my patch, of river on its way to the Clyde. A dipper bobs in the shallows; I make a note to reply to an email, and pick up my camera.

Close Encounter on the Firth of Clyde

By Steph Hamilton

It struck me, upon that gloriously crisp sunny October crossing, what a privilege it is to see creatures like you in the wild. 139 million square miles of water on the planet for you to roam but here you are racing my ferry in the Firth of Clyde.

You, a four-strong family, dancing with each wave break. Me, completely mesmerised, and now hanging a wee bit too far over the railings to get a better look! In that moment I think about chance and the timing of the universe. Had I taken the earlier ferry this moment between mainland and island North Ayrshire wouldn’t have happened. Or at least, it wouldn’t have happened to me. All of a sudden my childhood stuffed animals and wildlife posters of dolphins have come to life in front of me.

While externally the excitement is more chalant than non(!), internally the sense of calm and peace is unmistakable. The animal that the ancient Greeks believed to be messengers and protectors of those at sea shows itself for the first time in my life while I share its habitat; a body of water. Not from a viewing platform on a coastal pier, and thank goodness not through a sheet of glass in a tawdry amusement park. For those twenty minutes we share the same longitude and latitudes. What an incredibly humbling and exhilarating honour.

As passengers aboard the MV Caledonian Isles, we share the unmatched joy that is Scottish wildlife. You, the pod, remind me that timing is everything. Was I meant to see you that day? Was this particular crossing, and this particularly unseasonably warm weather the catalyst for being more present? Are you protecting my journey so I try to encourage others to protect yours? Or was it simply a coincidence?

Perhaps it means nothing. Perhaps it is simply a dolphin sighting. But perhaps it’s more; a reminder. A reminder to me and all humans that nothing in the natural world around us is infinite. Nothing is untouched by our actions. Nothing stays free if we try to manipulate and exploit it. When a lesson presents itself, take good heed. In the greater scheme of things what is this chance encounter truly saying?

Be present. Put down the phone. Embrace nature’s endolphins!

SHORTLISTED

Cnoc and Lochan

By Nicki MacRae

Velour.

Like Grandma’s cushions on hushed Sundays.

Flesh split over solid bones. A landscape honed by eras and eons, time so generous it lacks coherence.

Miry and hostile, horizons are lost, and deep in the cracks lewd wind smooths the nap of these glacial smears. The wind nears, caresses, stings and veers, giddy with gusto. Brawn in the form of flux and fluster, hustling whipped wings to choreographed muster.

Precips and pillows, rakes and hollows craft niches of nacre, slivers of silver each observant in nature. Where water waits… the sky must follow.

SHORTLISTED

Inis Shroin

By John Reid

Normally, relief is preceded by something alarming and terrible, but there are occasions when it arrives without having to endure anything at all, or at least without having to endure anything more alarming and terrible than everyday life. Stepping foot on the long dark jetty of the Holy Isle, waving the boatman back to Lamlash as the tide laps against the blackened wood, is one of these. Relief, because the sky is split in half, pale blue and chalk white, and you’re noticing it. Relief, to be on the island of an island of an island, the earth whittled to a navigable size.

• There is a framed painting in the airy dining room of the centre, a room that no matter your age evokes memories of school trips, infused with the nutty smell of well-sat benches. The painting is of the island as it appears from the Arran shore. It rises up in its rough-hewn majesty, an unexpected protrusion of granite where there ought to be Firth of Clyde, and the artist has painted within its contours a woman, reclining. She is, by now, cliché, but it really is uncanny. One slender arm stretches over her head, the other forms a pillow, and it looks as though she’s listening to the heartbeat of the Atlantic.

•

Like us, Eriskay ponies fade to white as they get older, starting black or russet or tan, but they peak in middle-age, on the brink of grizzle, when they seem as though wrapped in the dewy webs of a winter morning. They are from a forgotten time, a time of peat thatch and hearths. Theirs is a society I don’t understand – each tail flick, each whicker seems a caution from the bone-white matriarch to the musky young males. They roam everywhere, hooves thumping off the hollow-sounding earth, but are commonly found in the nook of the woman’s arm where the monks live, nuzzling her cheek.

• Willow warbler, chimney sweep, rockbeam, snipe, keeled skimmer, aspen, shearwater, bumble–

•

The birds, bugs, and trees are too many to list. The important thing to note is their plenitude, their hum and swish and song. Every twig, every petal, examined closely, is something’s universe. A sign near the boathouse: Do not walk on the lichenous rocks else you’ll worry the nesting plovers.

•

The chef is a hairy poet – a very good chef, and a very good poet.

• A No-Take Zone sounds like a breeding place for extraterrestrial life, and it is. You cannot see these things, but you can sense them, slithering around the replenished nurseries: squirts, feather stars,

seabeards, Highland Dancers, nudibranchs. Apparently, the oysters and lobsters are thriving, and fisherman of nearby waters are reaping the rewards. Only 2.67 square kilometres did this.

• The Saanen goats are found on her right buttock. Their facial hair implies that they catastrophise and it’s best to leave them to it, but from the lower slopes of Mullach Mòr you can watch their horns weaving through the windswept bracken, meandering from lighthouse to bird reserve and back again, getting all worked up over nothing.

•

A shadowy creature skirts in the woods around her belly button, scurrying into the undergrowth before I can identify it. I spend two hours at St Molaise’s cave, imagining living there, until a monk arrives in orange garb and arranges himself on the dirt floor. I’ve seen him striding in the distance wielding a staff, but never up close. He grins at me. I grin at him. He retrieves, from within his robes, a packet of Wotsits. Shh, he says. After a while he tells me sadly that the Healing Well, a spring running down the hillside said to cure many maladies, doesn’t meet EU standards for potable water.

• A vole, perhaps?

• There is another cave uncouthly named the Lady Cave, but you can see why. Thankfully, it is not where the woman in the painting’s Lady Cave would be – it is more in her armpit. A knuckled hawthorn stands guard, berries overripe. I’m not sure how else to say this, but it is very profound, entering the Lady Cave. You feel consumed by the world, and when it gets so narrow you can’t go any further, turning back to the entrance, the damp mossy walls of the passage seem to drip with melted gold – a metaphor come to life.

•

The midges deserve a brief mention.

•

The island offers every guest one thing unique to them – a parting gift. It helps to sit still, so still the milk chocolate sheep, who have made a religion out of grazing the seaweed at the back of her calves, surround you. It is evening, and the sunset has steeped the world in lavender, so the furrows of the bay glint purple. The highest clouds remain tangy and aflame. I must have blended into the flock and the heaving shag of the summer gorse, because I saw a girl of 13 or 14 and she didn’t notice me. I’d seen her before – her mum had brought her on retreat, and on the first night I watched her yield her iPhone with grace. But that was days ago. She had somehow reclaimed it, and was marching towards the northern tip of the island, where rumour had it you might locate a flake of signal. She started zigzagging, checking her phone, no luck, zigzagging again. Sheep scattered in her wake. After a few minutes: a pitiful humph. Then a pause, before she removed her shoes, and her socks, rolled up her joggies, and waded in up to her knees towards Arran, holding her phone out like an offering. Which, one inevitable misstep later, leapt from her hands like a determined fish.

• I imagine she wanted to tell her friends how wonderful the place was.

Gaelic – Junior

Bhon bhun na h-aibhne don mhuir

By Harry Laing, 7 years old

An tùs na h-aibhne tha i suas air a' mhointich is na beanntan. Sa gheamhradh tha deigh oirre oir tha i eu-domhain.

Tha i cho fuar.

Tha an allt a' fàs as motha is as motha gus an loch, is an abhainn.

An abhainn, tha i làn bradan breagha is dòbhrain duinn, a' leum is a' snàmh.

An cuan, tha e glè mhòr.

Ann an stoirm, tha na stuadhan dubha cho àrd ri busaichean.

Tha iad eagalach, Fiù 's na cearbainn falaichte sna doimhneachd.

[English translation]

The Source of the River to the Sea

By Harry Laing, 7 years old

The source of the river it’s up on the moor and the mountains. In winter there is ice on it as it’s shallow. It’s so cold.

The stream is growing bigger and bigger to the loch, and the river. The river, it’s full of salmon and otters, Jumping and swimming.

The sea, it’s very large.

In a storm, the black waves are as high as buses They are frightening Even the sharks are hidden in the deep.

Turas gun mhuir

By Cassie Williams, 7 years old

Tùs na h-aibhne, tha an t-uisge fuar agus fìor-ghlan.

An loch, tha an t-uisge dubh, dìomhair.

An abhainn, tha is nas blaithe, donn mar òr.

A' mhuir, tha i gorm is uabhasach mòr!

[English translation]

A Journey to the Sea

By Cassie Williams, 7 years old

The source of the river the water is cold and pure.

The loch, the water is black and mysterious

The river, it is warmer Brown like gold

The sea, its blue And terribly big.

FINALIST

Traigh Mhór

By Faith MacLachlan, 12 years old

‘S e dìreach mise agus an each agam a' ruith sios Tràigh Mhòr

Tha na stuadhan a' bualadh agus a’ ghaoth a’ caoineadh na faoileagan ag itealaich taobh gu taobh

Trì ròin a' togail an cinn agus stadaidh sinn a’ coimhead

Tha coltas gu bheil a h-uile càil air stad gu foirfe ann an tìm

[English translation]

The Great Beach

By Faith MacLachlan, 12 years old

It’s just me and my horse running down the Great Beach

The waves are crashing and the wind crying

The seagulls flying from side to side

Three seals raising their heads and we stop to watch

It looks like everything has stopped perfectly in time

Gaelic – Adult

Cuairt Geamhraidh

By Gillebride MacMillan

Duilleach a thuit gu boglach an làir

An-diugh fodhainn sìnt’ ann an geamhradh nan ràith

Cragadaich ’s bragadaich, reothadh is fuachd

Duilleagan, bileagan, donnachadh ruaidht’.

Boillsgeadh na grèine a’ gathadh bho àird

A’ suathadh rim ghruaidh mar phògan fo bhlàth

Geugan nis rùisgt’ le gailleann is fuachd

Ach thusa rim thaobh le cagar nam chluais.

Thig crìoch air ar cuairt nuair thig oirnn an uair

Bho earrach, gu samhradh gu foghar nam buadh

’S nuair thig thugainn geamhradh bidh mise ’s mo luaidh

A’ seòladh nar cuimhne ’s do ghruaidh ri mo ghruaidh.

[Author’s translation]

A Winter Walk

By Gillebride MacMillan

Foliage fell to the bog of the ground

Lying beneath us now that winters come round Rattling, crackling, freezing and cold

Leaves, blades now browning, all fallen and old.

Rays of the sun beaming from high

Touch my cheeks like a kiss with a sigh

Branches now bare through wind and its cold

But with you by my side with that whisper you told.

Our journey, sure, it will come to its end

From spring, onto summer and autumn our friend

And when comes our winter, my beloved and I

Will sail through our memories, just a blink of an eye.

FINALIST

Gabh Sùil is Èist…

By Sarah MacLeod

Cluinnidh mi iad mus faic mi iad.

Cho tric is mi nam shuidhe a-muigh aig ceann an taighe, le cupa cofaidh, shuas anns a’ Ghearraidhghadhail. Uaireannan, chiad char sa mhadainn, is uaireannan, ann an ciaradh an fheasgair…

An toiseach, cha chluinn mi ach aon pheata, an uair sin, cluinnidh mi a dha no tri eile-agus chan fhada gus am bi measgachadh àlainn de dh’òrain aca. Aithnichidh mi an t-seinn aig tòrr dhiubh a-nis leis cho tric sa bhios mi ag èisteachd riutha.

Bidh mi a’ smaointinn air cho làidir sa tha iad gus faighinn tron gheamhradh le gèiltean cho garbh is sìde cho fiadhaich. Gach eun ri obair cho doirbh a dhèanamh gus cumail beò.

‘S e toileachas don chridhe is togail inntinn a th’ann a bhith cho dlùth ri nàdar agus a bhith a’ faighinn cothrom a bhith gam faicinn agus gus èisteachd riutha a' ceileireadh ri chèile is na h-òrain aca uile cho tarraingeach, inntinneach agus binn.

Thèid a h-uile sgath eile às mo cheann agus chan eil air fhàgail ach miorbhailtean nàdar mu thimcheall.

(‘s e peataichean a chanas sinn ri na h-eòin ann am Barraigh-gu h-àraid an fheadhainn bheaga)

Gabh Sùil is Èist…

Druidean cruinn còmhla air mullach an taighe

Lon-dubh leis fhèin air bhàrr nan geug

Faoileagan a’ sgèith os cionn na mara

Agus an fheannag cho stòlda an siud air an fheansa

A’ chuthag is an gocan ri chluinntinn sa ghleann

An traon ag èigheach measg fhlùraichean mhachrach

Clacharan a’ trod aig bonn a ghàrraidh

Is smeòrach a’ seinn air mullach an t-simileir

Iolaire sna neòil os cionn na beinne

Na sgairbh air sgeirean a’ teicheadh le chèile

Agus gèadh le isean a’ snàmh air an locha

Corra-ghritheach na aonar air oir a’ chladaich

An trìlleachan a’ cluich is a’ sealg air bhàrr nan tonn

Curracag cho pròiseil a’ dannsa san adhar

Dreathan-donn beag bìodach a’ bocadaich sna craobhan

Agus naosg ‘a drumaireachd sa ghrian a’ dol fodha

Cò aca ge-tà, rìgh nan speur, air sgiath, tha cho brèagha?

Nach eil aon seach aon cho glic ‘s cho geur le bhriathrachas fhèin

Gach eun cho iongantach is eòlach air àrainn…

Gabh sùil is èist, ach an dèan nàdar fiamh-ghàire ort!

Gabh sùil agus èist

[Author’s translation]

Look and Listen

By Sarah MacLeod

I can hear them before I see them. So often I sit outside at the side of the house, with a cup of coffee, up in the Garrygall. Sometimes, first thing in the morning, and sometimes, at dusk…

At first, I hear just one bird, then, I hear two or three more-and before long they have a beautiful medley of songs. I recognise the songs of many of them now because I listen to them so often.

I think about how strong they are to get through the winter with such harsh gales and such wild weather. Every bird has to do such hard work to stay alive.

It is a joy to the heart and a lifting of the mind to be so close to nature and to have the opportunity to see and listen to them exchanging songs together with their tunes so attractive, interesting and melodious.

All other things go out of my mind and all that remains is the wonder of nature all around me.

(We call birds ‘peataichean’ in Barra - more so the little ones)

Look and Listen…

Starlings gather together on the roof of the house

A blackbird by himself on top of the branch

Seagulls soaring over the sea

And the crow so stubborn there on the fence

The cuckoo and its pipit can be heard in the glen

The corncrake shouting among the machair wildflowers

A stonechat quarrelling at the bottom of the garden

And a thrush warbling on top of the chimney

An eagle in the clouds above the hill

The cormorants on the reefs flee together

The lone heron by the edge of the shore

And a goose with a gosling swimming on the loch

The oystercatcher playing and hunting on the crest of the wave

The proud lapwing dancing in the sky

A tiny, little wren bobbing in the trees

And a snipe drumming in the setting sun

But which of them, on the wing, and so beautiful, is king of the skies?

Isn’t each one so wise and sharp with his own eloquence

Each bird so amazing and familiar of its habitat…

Look and listen, so that nature will smile upon you!

Look and listen

FINALIST

Air Chuairt

By Cairistìona Stone

Cha b’ ann gu àite iomallach a thàinig mi.

Cha b’ ann gun fhiosta dhomh a shocraich m’ inntinn air an abhainn, an cromadh sìos ’s an t-eòlas a ghreimich cho dlùth rim chridhe cho luath ’s a laigh mo shùil air sealladh ris nach cuir mi ainm. ’S e mo mhiann sin a chumail dìomhair mar dhòigh air dìon a thogail mun cuairt an fhearainn, ’s orm fhìn. Cha bhuin an talamh dhòmhsa san fharsaingeachd, ach gu cinnteach buinidh e dhomh gu pearsanta. Tiugainn, thigibh leam.

’S ann le duilgheadas na h-aoise a tha mi a’ cromadh gu faiceallach sìos bruaichean casa na h-aibhne. ’S math mo chuimhne air seo a choileanadh gu h-èasgaidh ann an làithean m’ òige, peile nam làimh, a’ sireadh bùrn glan na maidne gun dragh sam bith air inntinn no bodhaig, a’ dìreadh air ais suas, uaireannan a’ glacadh seòbhrag no dhà a chuirinn ris na flùraichean a bha, mar-thà nan seasamh pròiseil sa bhàsa a bh’ againn air a’ bhòrd. ’S dòcha gun robh beachd math aig m’ athair mu dheidhinn a bhith a’ buain fhlùraichean fiadhaich ach chan e a-mhàin nach tuirt esan càil, ach aig amannan dhìreadh esan le cnap dheòlagan na dhòrn leis cho dèidheil ’s a bha e air an fhàileadh chùbhraidh a lìonadh rùm-suidhe beag ann an ùine nach biodh fada.

Nuair a sgrìobh mi ‘deòlagan’ thàinig cuimhne eile thugam air nithean eile a bhiodh m’ athair an còmhnaidh a’ cruinneachadh. B’ e sin, daolagan. ’S fheàrr dhomh an ainmeachadh leis an tiotal a th’ aca; ‘boiteagan’, ach cha shaoil mise gun cuala mi duine san sgìre againn a-riamh a’ cleachdadh sin. Daolagan. Sin a bhiodh sinn a’ sireadh, ’s gun sinn ach beag, fo leacan is chlachan timcheall an dachaigh. Ged a bha teansa mhath gun lorgadh tu grunn san òcrach, cha bhiodh sinn idir idir a’ coimhead an sin, gu h-àraid seach gun do thuit mo cho-ogha ann air a cheann dìreach, latha teth samhraidh, ’s b’ fheudar dham athair pìob-uisge a thionndadh air, an truaghan.

Co-dhiù, tha mi a-nis aig bruaich na h-aibhne, ag èisteachd ris an allt a’ sruthadh gu socair eadar na clachan ’s na creagan, gach boinneag a’ snìomh slighe leisg chun na mara. Chì mi breac beag bìodach ’s iad eadar an abhainn ’s na gluman as doimhne far am bi iad a’ cluich. A’ tarraing sùil air ais, tha na gluman sin a-mach à sealladh ach nach mise a tha eòlach orra uile, a’ leantainn na h-aibhne cho fad’ a-mach ri Loch Sgeireach a’ Ghlinn Mhòir no Loch nan Luig, beagan nas fhaisg ach astar fada airson casan beaga air mòinteach fharsaing.

A' dol air adhart, abair sealladh!

Toilichte gu bheil aodach dorcha gam fhalach, tha e follaiseach nach fhaca na dòbhrain mi. A’ sìneadh gu socair slaodach sìos am measg raineach is fraoich, a’ faireachdainn taingeil, tha mi air mo bheòghlacadh leotha, ’s na cleasan aca. ’S ann glè ainneamh a chithear dòbhrain air a’ phàirt seo den abhainn.

Abair tiodhlac!

Ach, an uairsin, airson adhbhar do-thuigsinneach tha iad mothachail air mo làthaireachd, m’ anail

aotram, mo chridhe a’ bualadh, mo shùilean glaiste orra. Airson diog, tha sinn a’ coimhead a chèile; mise, miannach gum fuirich iad nam chuideachd greiseag ach iadsan mì-chinnteach, sgeunach, eagalach. Ann am priobadh na sùla, siud iad a’ teicheadh fada bhuam.

An drochaid air mo chùlaibh, an fhairge romham, tha mi a’ cumail orm a’ leantainn gach lùb den tsruth. Air mo thaobh dheis, tha Beinn Ghearadha air nochdadh ’s air mo thaobh chlì, chì mi an staran air nach tàinig crìoch. Tha cuimhneachain a’ dòrtadh tromham… latha brèagha, tioram nuair a choisich mi gu Nis, aig amannan faisg air an oirthìr; Abhainn na Cloiche, Dùn Othail, Cladach Dhìobadail … ainmean-àite a’ tighinn thugam fada nas luaithe na thàinig Sgiogarstaidh.

Ach an-diugh, ’s ann a tha mo shlighe ’s mo fhradharc ceangailte ris an àrainneachd a tha eadar an abhainn ’s an fhairge. Eadar gach smuain, chì mi gu bheil mi air innse dhuibh far a bheil sinn. Ach, dè ’n diofar. Nan tigeadh sib’ fhèin air turas, dh’aontaicheadh sibh gum bu chòir àite cho buileach àlainn a chumail cho dìomhair ’s a b’ urrainn. Thigibh ann, uaireigin. A’ falbh bho chlach gu clach, tha eòin bheaga nam shealladh. Mar as trice, ’s e gobhlan-uisge a chithear ach tron phrosbaig ’s e glasag a th’ innte. ’S fheàrr leam fhìn ‘Breac-an-t-Sìl’ or saoilidh mi gu bheil glasag rudeigin lom mar ainm an taca ris ~ barrachd brìgh, nach eil?

Siud i, a h-earball a’ dol suas is sìos, mar as dual. Tha riabhagan mun cuairt cuideachd, feadhainn faisg air an allt agus feadhainn eile shuas nas àirde am measg an fhraoich; uiseag a’ seinn, ’s i gu luath ag èirigh suas a-mach à sealladh. Chan eil stad air a guth! Cuin a bhios i a’ tarraing anail? ’S math as fhiach èisteachd rithe.

Tha mi a-nis faisg air a’ chladach, air an tràigh far a bheil na stacan-mara nan seasamh mar luchdchaithris, aodannan ris a’ chuan. Chì mi aig an drochaid fhiodha bùrn donn na h-aibhne a’ sruthadh a-steach dhan fhairge ~ pòsadh nàdarra eadar tìr is muir. A’ tionndadh, os cionn nan suailaichean, cluinnidh mi na faoileagan a tha ag itealaich mun cuairt. Air a bhòrd-picnic faisg orm, tha faoileag a’ chinn dhuibh a’ sireadh nam pronnagan mu dheireadh mus fhalbh iad air osag gaoithe. Na chois, tha cuimhne eile a’ dùnadh a-steach orm fhads a tha mi a’ deisealachadh airson tilleadh suas, dìreadh cas tron fhraoch.

B’ e sin m’ ogha, Micah, a tha ag ionnsachadh Beurla agus Gàidhlig aig an aon àm ’s e fhathast rudeigin mì-chinnteach a thaobh sgaradh a dhèanamh eadar an dà chànan:

‘Seall Granaidh! Salach bird’.

Leis an lachanaich a thig an cois aoibhneas, tha mi a’ dèanamh mo shlighe suas, fàileadh raineach is fraoch a’ lìonadh gach pàirt dhiom ~ bodhaig is anam.

Rambling

By Christine Stone

It was not to a remote place I came.

It was not by chance that my mind settled itself on the river, to the familiar, steep descent down to its banks. The knowledge of it claimed my heart as soon as my eyes drank in the beauty of the place, remaining so cherished to me that I am unwilling to share its name with you. Wishing to keep it a secret is my way of setting a garrison around my land, and around myself. The land is not mine in the wider sense, but it surely belongs to me in that most personal of ways.

Come. Come with me.

Oh, it is with the constraints of old age that I make my way, carefully down the steep riverbanks. How well I remember the days of my youth where this was accomplished with vigour and ease! The morning ritual always led me there, pail in hand, seeking the clear, morning water and with nothing to worry mind or body, the steady climb back up. Sometimes plucking a primrose or two to add to the flowers which already stood proudly in the vase on our table halted my ascent, but for good reason. My father may have had an opinion on gathering wildflowers, but not only did he refrain from chiding his youngest daughter, he himself would clamber up the same, steep riverbank clutching a handful of honeysuckle in his fist. He was so fond of that wonderful scent which would permeate our little sitting room in a truly short space of time.

My inclusion of honeysuckle reminds me of another gathering to which my father was partial. As a keen fisherman, he needed a constant supply of worms. We would search under stones, slates and boulders around our home. Although there was every chance of finding plenty in the manure heap, as children we would never investigate there, especially after my little cousin fell in, head-first one hot, summer’s day and my father had no choice but to turn the hose on him, poor soul.

Reminiscing over for now, I find myself at the river’s edge listening to the stream flowing gently between the rocks and stones, each drop weaving its way lazily towards the sea. I can see tiny, little trout between the river and the deeper pools where they gather to play and grow. Glancing backwards, I notice that these pools are now out of sight but oh, how familiar they are to me! Each one is a feature of the river as far out as Loch Sgeireach a’ Ghlinn Mhoir or Loch nan Luig, somewhat closer yet a long, long way for little feet on that wide expanse of moorland.

Moving along my riverbank, I catch a rare sight!

Glad of the dark clothes camouflaging me from them, I am aware the otters have not seen me. Lying down slowly amongst bracken and heather, I feel thankful and overwhelmed, silently watching their antics. It is very seldom that otters are spotted in this section of the river.

What a gift!

Then, for some inexplicable reason, they become aware of my presence even though my breath is exceptionally light, my heart pounding silently within, my eyes fixed upon them. For a second we gaze at each other; my desiring their companionship for a little while yet but they unsure, flighty and wary. Then, in the blink of an eye, there they go, far away from me.

The bridge behind me, the ocean before me, I keep on following each bend of the river. On my right side, Ben Geiraha appears and on my left side, I can see the path of that ‘road to nowhere’.

Memories flood my soul of a beautiful, dry day when we walked over to Ness on that very pathway; Abhainn na Cloich, Dùn Othail, Cladach Dhìobadail ~ the names of the places we passed by coming to me much more quickly that our eventual destination, Skigersta.

Today though, my rambling and vision are married to the beauty that binds river to sea. Between each thought, a new thought comes to me ~ I have told you where we are! But, what of it? If you yourselves came here, you would agree that a place as wondrous as this is worthy of keeping close to the heart in words unspoken. Come, sometime.

I see the little river birds now, hopping from one stone to the next. Usually, I catch sight of the dippers but, viewing one tiny bird through my binoculars, I see this one is a pied-wagtail. There she is now, her tail bobbing up and down as befits her character. There are many other small, speckled birds nearby, some close to the water and others higher up amongst the heather; a skylark singing as she quickly rises into the air until she is out of sight. Her song has no beginning or end, and I wonder when she stops to take a breath. She is worth listening to, even when I can no longer see her.

Soon, I find myself near to the shore, that shore where the sea-stacks rise as sentinels, their faces staring solemnly out to the furthest horizon. Standing at the old, wooden bridge I see the brown, peaty river water flowing freely into the salty sea ~ a natural marriage between land and ocean. Beyond the sound of the waves, I hear the herring-gulls cry out as they wheel and soar above. On the picnic table near to me, a black-headed gull seeks the last crumbs before the gentle breeze takes them away. Watching the gull, I am reminded of our little grandson, who with the mix of Gaelic and English known only to little people described the black-headed gull to me in garbled words that brought laughter then and renewed laughter now. With that quiet mirth that accompanies carefree joy, I make my way upwards, the warm smell of bracken and heather filling every part of me, body and soul.

SHORTLISTED

Chan ann an-diugh

By Nick Macdonald

Bha e na latha an mar an-diugh

Ach chan ann an-diugh

Oir chitheadh tu flùraichean a’ mhachaire

Dannsa thar nan achaidhean

Agus chan eil sgeul air flùraichean sam bith an-diugh

Chan e an ràith a th’ ann

Bha a’ mhuir cho blàth is cho socair an uairsin mar an-diugh

Ach chan ann an-diugh

Oir chan eil i cho gorm ri ugh robin

Agus chitheadh tu Hirta mar eite siorc

Ach chan ann an-diugh

Oir chan eil Hirta ach puf geal

An aghaidh dath ugh gearga

A’ feitheamh ri bhith air ithe

Bha e na latha an uairsin mar an-diugh

Ach chan ann an-diugh

Oir chan eil na tonnan a’ bualadh nan sgeirean cho ìosal

’S gum faiceadh tu an gainmheach agus cha mhòr a’ beantainn

Na cliabh a bha a’ feitheamh gu h-ìosal

Ach os cionn a h-uile càil bha e na latha an uairsin mar an-diugh

Nuair a mharcaich a mac-samhail nan tonn

Shèid a falt anns a’ ghaoith mar fhitheach Odin

A’ cumail ris a’ bhogha-sprit

A sgiortaichean a’ crathadh anns a’ ghaoith

Mar shiùil gar cruinneachadh

Bha e na latha an uairsin mar an-diugh

Ach chan ann an-diugh

Oir tha i air falbh

Not Today

By Nick Macdonald

It was a day then like today

But not today

For you could see the flowers of the machair

Dance across the fields

And there is no sign of any flowers today

It is not the season

The sea was as warm and tranquil then like today

But not today

For it is not as blue as a robin's egg

And you could see Hirta like a shark's fin

But not today

For Hirta is but a puff of white

Against the colour of a quail's egg

Waiting to be eaten

It was a day then like today

But not today

For the waves do not lap the skerries so low

That you could see the sand and almost touch

The waiting creels below

But most of all it was a day then like today

When her reflection rode the waves

Her hair blew in the wind like Odin's raven

Clinging to the bowsprit

Her skirts billowing in the breeze

Like sails gathering us up

It was a day then like today

But not today

For she is gone

SHORTLISTED

Sruth

By Màiri Anna NicUalraig

Gach boinne ’s braonan a’ boillsgeadh ann an soillse grèine, friog-frag gach deur a’ seirm ’s an co-sheirm borbhan an alltain ag iadhadh na chaochan fo na liosan tro shaidhbhear fo shràidean a’ bhaile mhòir.

A shèist fhèin aig gach cùrsa ’s iad nan còisir crònain a’ tachairt an comar ’s a’ tuirling dhan t-siùbhlachan.

Gach fonn a’ sìor èirigh, beucadh an t-srutha a’ cur nan caran, a’ dòrtadh dhan abhainn a dh’fhàg soraidh ’s a chuir fàilte, a dhùisg othail cruadail, ’s a thog ceilear gàirdeachais ri saoibhreas.

Briathar nam beann ’s nam bruthaichean air a thogail os cionn nan rann ’s nan duan, ri còrdadh ’s ri easaonta.

Guth nan gleanntan gam ghiùlan an eathar, a’ fuaradh òran ioma-ghuthaich, ioma-ghleusaich, a’ tacadh eadar moladh is mallachd, eadar dàn m’ fhala is m’ anam agus torman maol an t-srutha a dh’fhuadaicheadh ceòl is seirm càirdeis.

Ar sruth a thogadh le iomadh ghlaodh, ga mhùchadh ann an ainm aonachd.

Fuadain is dualach, am measg mac-talla nan clobhsaichean, seinnidh mi gu dà-ghuthach m’ aona-dhuanag fhèin.

[Author’s translation]

Current

By Màiri Anna NicUalraig

Each drip and droplet glittering in sunlight the patter of each drop ringing out and harmonising with the purling of the burn winding its way as a hidden course in the meadows, through the culvert beneath the city streets.

Each current with its own chorus, together a murmuring choir gathering in confluence and cascading into the stream.

Each song ever rising, the roar of the water turning cartwheels, spilling into the river that bade farewell and welcome, that caused the tumult of hardship and rang out prosperity with sweet birdsong.

The voice of the high hills and slopes raised above verse and song in agreement and dissent.

The sounds of the glens carrying me aboard, weathering a multi-voiced song of intricate harmony, tacking between oath and ovation, between the destiny-song of blood and soul, and the flat drone of the course that would expel the concord of kith and kin.

Our stream that was raised up with many’s the cry stifled in the name of unity.

Foreign and familiar, amidst the echo of the closes, I’ll sing two-voiced my own song.

Scots – Adult

FINALIST

A Selkie redds

By Finola Scott

Time it wis ower, endit.

Time tae win awa frae him, tae win oot, tae be lowse wi thaim that ken the true meanin o luve.

A hae sabbit at this brink fir weeks, months, luiin tae that saft hamelt vice - the soond o the tide steidy aneith the clatter o ebb-pickers.

Niver sauf wi him, A studied the spells o skies, ettlet efter the prattick o men. Aye and on, ma bluid lowpen wi the string, whiles

A breukit the tang o kelp in spindrift.

Aw is horizontal here whare sea and sky confabble. Muin-glents airt me

tae the lowe o sea paps, partans and goby eyedent in the seelent bield o vaddles.

In the burrit huil A wis laund-ruitit, stickit.

A grued, greenin tae courie in kent saut-watter. Hinderly ma ain reft fur cried frae thon hidie-hole.

Nou A find its saft daunt, haur it hishie ma bynames.

Facksins and shoals will hailse me, nay raging or atterie. Nae counger, anely trust, respect and guidwill.

A am yare.

sabbit - sobbed hamelt vice - homely or familiar voice

ebb-pickers - wading birds

prattick - habit

bluid - blood; lowpen - jumped breukit – enjoy the use of

confabble - chat; muin-glents - moonshine

sea paps - sea anemones; partans - crabs eyedent - busy; bield - shelter vaddles - sea pools that fill and empty with the tide

burrit huil - coarse, strong wind grued - shivered; greenin - longing hinderly - at last; reft - torn

daunt – discouraging words; hishiewhispers

facksins - breaking waves; hailse - greet atterie – stormy

Frae Soorce tae Bracky-bree: A Hieland Tryst

By Bobby Gillies

In the whisht hert o the soothren hielands, whaur the auncient stanes hae mind o a diff’rent sun, heiven's first teardrap gaithers. Nae frae winter’s snell grip alane, but frae a deeper wallspring, a pulse wi’in the granite grain. It’s a sigh, barelins audible, as it bids its bye tae its birthgrund, a libation chaste born.

It seeks the howes, the moss-padded cups, drawn by a thin veiled current, a tender persuasion. Ilka rivulet jines, a siller threid in the muckle hingers o green an grey, whimperin saicrets, guid wirds tae the ling. Thare’s nae haste, anely unfauldin, gentie dounwi’ yieldin tae the lochan.

Throu peat-stained burns, whaur the broon speckelt troot, like quickened thochts, dart an shimmer, the watters muivin. They cairy the essence o the heich places, the wildness o the deer, the stoic seelence o the auld Scots pine. An in this jurney, they ur niver diminished, but iver enriched, iver expandin.

The river deepens, a quate conviction gaitherin strenth. It passes croft an ramshackelt kirk, reflectin the lift, the fleetin cloods, an the steidfest starns. The saumon lowp, a startelt grace, returnin tae the soorce o thair ain glamourie, completin a saucrit ring.

Then, the turnin, the widenin, the slaw courie-in o the firth. The fresh watter, still sweet wi Grampian dew, mingles wi the vastness, the auncient salt an swell o the Nor sea. Thare’s nae clash, nae loss o sel, ainly profoond communion.

Here, aw jurneys converge. The smaw burn that stertit as a breith, the muckle watter, the boondless deep - aw fer wan, yit distinct. Ilka ane hauds a mem’ry o its ain springheid, an a hecht o return. It’s the endurin flowe, the endless giein, the seelent witness weel-trystit. Guid airtit watter-o-life kens nae mairches... Blist. Ayebidin. Gracie-free. Frae Lui’s heidmaist pirr tae bracky-bree.

whisht - quiet snell - biting, sharp, cold barelins - barely howes - a hollow in the ground ilka - each or every muckle - mighty or huge lift - sky starns - stars saucrit - sacred

hecht - promise giein - giving weel-trystit - well trusted airtit - guided mairches – boundaries gracie-free – free and virtuous pirr - breeze bracky-bree – the sea

FINALIST

Hunger

By Alexander Inglis

Glazie, roon steens, hard-vrocht wi eers o kirnin, gie a bit as she staps doon aff the dockie-swaird.

Gustie vaams, left by the ebbin tide, snift up like a tike, hud her back fae getting doon til the ootgaun, aye muivin, saut-bree.

Waffs, thick wi the hecht o susteenance, proffer a mealtith.

Wee-boukit, bit swack and yauld, feezen, joukin, windin aroon bowder an through weed, huily an fairly, stoppit be the upsteerin o hertie vaams. Her oncome til the watter is trig bit, for aa that, ilka holie, clift and rivock is leukit at, hidie-holes fund ower i eers, an aye myndit.

A sma partan, taen apairt, it’s shall, rived tae bits an left atap a weed happit rock is tint tae her passage.

A wee paidlecock catched and

golloped doon, jist a by-bit, afore movin faurer doon the foreland.

Slidderin eithly atween air an watter, shakin hard,

castin a thoosan peerie draps that glent like diamonds in the muinlicht she hauds-gaun, snokin fer mair spraich.

Syne, intil the ootgaun, flowin, skooshin watter she douks birlin, swirlin twirlin

leukin for a fishie tae feed her hunger an the kitlins hidden in the scrogs at the heed o the foreland.

glazie - glittering steen - stone

hard-vrocht - hard wrought/worked

dockie-swaird - smooth grass clipped short

vaam - scent, smell tike - a dog

ootgaun - ebbing tide

hecht - promise mealtith - a meal

wee-boukit - small-bodied

swack - nimble, agile yauld - sprightly, strong

joukin - ducking, bobbing huily - slowly, gently

upsteerin - stirring up trig - brisk, alert ilka - each or every partan - crab paidlecock - lumpsucker muinlicht - moonlight

snokin - sniffing or smelling spraich - flotsam and jetsam

scrog - a bush or low tree

SHORTLISTED

Philorth

By Ashara Taylor

I ging oot fer ma wee walk at a’ oors o’ ih day

Ony wither, ony time, am stompin’ on ma way

Av got a camera in ma bag

Av got some ugly shoes

And fit am gan tae see ootside

Will cure ma worktime blues

Av jist one route I like tae tak

Oot tae ih wild an’ back

Ah carve ih same paths year to year

But sights ah dinna lack

Some fowk wid say: it’s nae fer me

Tae walk ih same woods, sand, and sea

Fin I lived fast, I’d say ih same

But now fit same? Fit’s ‘at tae dee?

Ye canna step ih same stream twice,

(said some auld Greek.) Well, ‘at’s nice.

I’d tell ‘at loon tae look ootside

Ih hale wirld fleets. It melts like ice.

Icemelt, then swelling snowdrops, then

Sunbright daffs, and lambs, and then

Ferns curl below, leaves awn above,

Then brambles, mushrooms, mud, and then

A woodpecker, a week afore!

I heard his beak; I saw him soar!

Ih other day, a badger’s tracks

Great muckle prints, wi’ claws that tore.

Maps are sneaky liars, right?

They say av been here every night

Av jist one route I like tae tak

Aye: that much at least is true

But fin I ging fer ma wee walk

That route is a’ways new

SHORTLISTED

Gowdspink Ascending

By Keith Wood

Galravish o Gowdspink aw thrangin thegither

A fidgin fain flichter oer heath hauch an heather

Chaunts, clishmaclaivers an braid brankin blethers

Treells dirls an pleeps skailin oot antrin haivers

Nae dowie doul dregs frae the Reidcappit Linty

Wi yer Lane Ranger mask tippin sae impidinty!

A music mosaic tae the uttermaist heicht

Swurling weidershins intae the lafty lift licht

Splart splatches o ebonie, glint gowd, an cram cramasie

Skinklin heich ower hine waffin wild wanton wastrie

A sprecklet tornado o cheeps skirls an dirlin

A pirlin pitleurachie lik pipe chaunters skirlin

Heicher an heicher gowd specks a hine’s onding!

Atour the lift’s lift

Gowdspink Ascending.

SHORTLISTED

Flight

By Emma Nicolson

One Saturday I looked oot the windae- my curtains wur flappin in the wind. There wis a wee glint of sunshine atween the smirr of the mornin. The last few evenings had been teth and mochy. We couldna sleep at night. Coulda ended ma man fur his big flappy feet oan ma legs whenever he tried coolin his doon ad kick him wi mines. A wee spug to the glass and skreiched away pecking the seed id left oan the frame. Today wis the day. The fresh air called tae us. Mibbe taps aff later oan! Me being me tho-

Ah put oan the wrang shoes.

When we got tae the boat bound fur Mingulay it was cauld. Climbed into the wee tugger. The captain long standing in his job probaly his 20th trip that week. Ma wee converses were like that sappy wet way when yur pinkie toe feels aw nippy. The flair e the boat wis een too a bit drippy. Ah fun oot why tho hauf an oor later.

Sailed oot tae the deepest of waters. A wave came out tae meet us. A huge whale like a submariner keeked oot tae put on a show. Then a wee bit later we seen the shiniest glossiest dolphins- dancin between the crests and I thought that was it. The actual best it coulda been afore we wur left oan an abandoned island fur 3 hours like the wee laddie from long ago. Hoped tae god he’d come back.

When we win on the island we trekked through the machair to the top of the hill- tae the heich shier crag an a hid tae lie oan ma belly. The crags were white wi birds wi the wee pufflings and their maws and das nesting and diving into the water. Even tho a wis freezin ma knockers off they’d gone numb from the hard ground. Whit ad huv done fur faur-keekers that day. We used ma man’s fancy shmancy camera and took whit photies we could. They wur the nicest surprise after that huge tramp up. Mingulay wisnae the dern place we’d heard about. It wis like a wee secret that only we knew. Us, the birds and the wilds.

On the boat ride back a couldnae haud it in. Ad already held in the loo for like 4 hours. I went past the “regatta family” who’d thrown about a grand at their fashion show - tae the cludgie.

By the way I’ve never shown a whole boat load of folk my tail afore. The waves made me fall aff the ruddy toilet pan and through the door oot tae the captain and fall straight back in. The boat rocked like an actual carnival ride. It was ten mins of trying to dae a pish. Fallin in and out the the cludgie. When I came and sat doon again the other passengers were green. It wisnae me it wiz the wild! Ah still loved being oot there. Broke ma heart goin hame but thank goodness a never broke the boat or the bog. I felt like I’d fought somedy.

When ye go out oan into the wild ye can be guaranteed a good nichts kip fee aw that fresh air. A guess whit- the best bit is ye can wake up all air again win the wee birdies chittering away ready for the next adventure.

SHORTLISTED

The Outsider

By Toni De Luca

They’re creative, they’re nifty, they’re light on their feet, unlike me, a clunky gull saddled wi this muckle bill made tae hae yer full o’ fish an frogs an adders an toads an even oor ain kindnae wonder the other birds cannae trust us!

It taks patience, it taks strong wull tae dae the work o’ these wee birds oyster catchers wi their long orange bills an nifty feet dancin aboot, prodding an pickin among the sea weed turnin up cockles an mussels an tasty treats

So fawr, it’s goin alricht I’m stickin tae the sidelines watchin an learnin fae the rest o’ the team as they get stuck in the waves rollin in high tide, wi a fair amount o’ sea spray my auld gull pals lookin doon on me, cawin an squakin an sayin God knows whit aboot me!

It’s no been long since I decided tae leave the flock tae gee these oyster catchers a chance

I hud really hud enough

an I think it wis seein how they treatet my pal the craw who hud workt his feathers aff tae find a wee bite tae eat

I watcht them swoop in, a dozen o’ them an steal the bite oot o’ his mooth how uncouth!

nae wonder folk dinnae like us!

We used tae be seen as majesticbirds that wid only come intae toon when there wis a storm at sea an folk wid tak pity

thinkin that we were seekin some kind o’ shelter an throw us a scrap or a morsel

Noo we’ve musseled oor way in tae aw these wee sea side toons

an even the fishermen, willnae gee us a scrap o’ their haul becaus some o’ my kind hav taken things too fawr

robbin folk o’ their fish an chips o’ their ice cream

stealin fae auld folk fae weins, sittin ducks in their prams

Birds o’ a feather flock the gether, they say bit mibbe there’s room for me in their team a stray gull……

Oh whit I wouldnae gee tae be born again as an oyster catcher

SHORTLISTED

The Selch

By Lesley Buchan Donald

We wir blessed wi ane o those rare quate days whan the heivens are reflectit in the azure sea. Wi the pale saund an the clear watter we micht hae bin oan a tropical strand an nae the Isle o Skye.

Me an ma twa sons wir giein kyakin a go. The mornin hid been spent learin aboot the wee boaties an whit tae dae gin we coupit them. Syne five o us forbye the instructors paidled awa fae the jetty an alang the coast. We hidna gan far, whan up oot o the watter cam a grey heid with big roon black een. He jist lookit at us fir a mintie, then he wis awa joukin an divin doon. An aumlach critter oot oan the skerries bit maister o the warld ablo the swaw. He wisna feart o us, jist nebby. Times he seemed tae be lauchin at us. Twa-three ithers jined him but steyed aff, while he cam six fit fae oor kayaks.

The day lookit bonnie bit the sea wis baltic. The younger o ma laddies hid coupit his boatie sae aften he wis blae-lippit, his teeth chittering wi the cauld. We turned back tae the jetty whaur the Landrover wis waitin wi thick towels an het chocolate; jist whit wis needed. The selch watched us fir a bittie then he wis awa; playtime ower.

SHORTLISTED

Otter

By George T Watt

It wis the mirk o the evening, glowering in tae the jaws o nicht. Ae wild sea wis tumbling ower the Skerries, sea spittle wis dauncin ower the laund and the wund howled throu ma lugs. On this scarred an wind hewn coast, the Isle o Islay faces the blatter heid first, fechtin the storm mellin an swellin its venom. Here tragedy is a kenspeckled gabberlinzie that haunts the coast, ready tae catch the unwary.

Here the Otranto, flittin yung men frae the prairies, fairms an ceity bustle, thair kennin o Amercae, tae fecht in a fuar an unkent futur in Wurld Weir Wan France met its fate. Ower fower hunner wir lost in yon awfy storm. Here the Brig, Exmouth, wi it's cargo o Irish misery hold up in the dank rotten guts o dairk timmer, weemen an bairns feart, pray an cling thegither in faith. Thair terrors, melled wi faus hope o a new life, wir crushed, drowned agin murderous rock. Ower twa hunner and forty wir lost that nicht.

Wi thay thochts entertainin ma wanrocht mind the storm fires ma bluid, maks ma brain birl as I streive agin the feirce blast. Ma lungs snatch an grasp the briney air, faw cuid fecht 'sailor bold' agin yon gurly sea?

Fit wis that! Och it maun be naithin, juist seaweed. Naw thare it is again, wis it an airm clawing fur life? Ma heid wis swirlin, fit can I div, thare mang the skerries, fite watter bylin, whaur is it noo,? Thare it is again this waneasy limb wavin amang bilin surf.

An Otter! An Otter playin wi, and in, the surf. I'd niver seen the like. Lying on its back I swear it haed ae muckle grin frae lug tae lug as it crunched on a Sea Urchin. Ma first sichtin o an Otter, an fit ae sicht it wis. Wi aa the panache o some athletic maestro this beastie performed its ain acrobatic, maister o its invironment. Thon wild sauty brine wis nae mare tae the Otter than a play pairk! I hae seen mony Otters sinsyne in calm seas an lochs, seemingly majestic like, but naithin wull ower excite yon first sicht o the Otter.

Words of the Wild is annual nature writing competition run by the Scottish Wildlife Trust. The 2025 Words of the Wild competition was run in association with the Scottish International Storytelling Festival and supported by the Riverwoods Blueprint Project and Sea the Connection, both led by the Scottish Wildlife Trust.

Artwork © Malini Chakrabarty

The Scottish Wildlife Trust is a Scottish registered charity (charity number SC005792). It is also a company limited by guarantee and registered in Scotland (registered number SC040247). Registered office: Harbourside House, 110 Commercial Street, Edinburgh EH6 6NF.