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
Odds & Ends

Summer in Scotland | Britta Benson

‘Quick’, I scream, dropping the dishcloth into the sink, my hands covered in froth as though they’ve got rabies. ‘Out!’

We grab the camping chairs, stashed in the darkest corner.

On our garden path, we bare milk blue arms, point sour faces towards the sun, like members of an obscure cult.

Two minutes pass. Then, black, voluptuous clouds devour the distant frolic of heat and close their ranks once again.

‘Summer’s done’, I sigh and turn to my husband. ‘Stick the kettle on, will you?’

We sit at the kitchen table, reminiscing.

‘Wasn’t it great?’, he says.

I stretch out my hand to touch his and melt into this beautiful memory of a fleeting moment.


Britta Benson
Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland
Odds & Ends

Summer solstice | Britta Benson

One drop of sun sneaks

through my eyelids with

a mission. Dancing purples

swirl red, orange flickers

tickle the sleepy freckles

on my iris. I lose all sense

of otherness as my body

leans into the distant soul

of a galaxy and connects

unconditionally with

this dying star of life.


Britta Benson
Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland
Odds & Ends