The cold call of winter enters lightly through a gap in the window,
throws a sudden chill on old skin trapped in solitary confinement.
White walls and sterile floors reflect years, hopes and dreams,
their echo a faint murmur in slowly freezing hearts of gold.
Stories told long ago hang like snowflakes in thin air,
to dance with the dead, the lost, the never again.
Time stands still once more, almost north.
The front door too far to reach.
Cool blue light from a phone
a beacon of warmth,
true connection
to the south.
Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing German, a writer, performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She runs a creative writing group and writes a daily blog, Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland brittasblog422041504.wordpress.com as well as the poetry blog, Odds & Ends oddsends707138946.wordpress.com. She also stares out of her window a lot and drinks far too much tea.
Selected by the editor as a featured submission, July 2022
Whispers and Echoes 
You involved me from your first phrase, which l loved and shall remember. I may return to read this poem in the depths of winter!
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