Sitting on a shingle beach | Britta Benson

The soft, secret murmurs of resting heartbeats

trickle gently through cobbles and flow into the sea

with the inexplicable ease of necessity. Waves

come and go, their greedy tongues dart in and out,

licking pebbles, melting sandcastles. Water and life

take no hostages. Sleeping stones echo the whispers

of a past as I balance my soul on top of these rocks

and stare into faraway future horizons. I watch all

my hard-earned ballast break off, disappear lightly

into the humming beauty of a black shingle beach.


Britta Benson
Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland
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