Strawberries

These superb Scottish strawberries were on my plate, about to be eaten. But first, a photo of their lusciousness and a few thoughts about their significance. 

These particular strawberries cost £3 for two punnets. Quite a lot of strawberries for your dosh. I find myself eating them most days just now - can't resist them. But we are told that they will cost 50% more after Brexit, because there will be no European pickers to bring them to our shops. A Brexiteer in Englandshire who is also a strawberry grower has just realised this and is unhappy, apparently. And this is news.

When I was growing up strawberries were a rare treat. We had them a few times in June/July; we had strawberry tarts on my father's birthday in June because they were his favourite. I have no idea what they cost but they felt like a luxury. We didn't grow any ourselves - not many people did, in suburban post-war Glasgow.

And Strawberries is the title of one of my favourite poems by Edwin Morgan:
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you


let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills


let the storm wash the plates