The cold call | Britta Benson

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.

The storm | Britta Benson

The storm is coming.

Funny how the wind knocks,

three times, four, a dozen.

Soft little brush strokes tickle

the fidgeting fingers of barenaked trees,

whisper ‘Forget decorum, dance, I’ll lead,

I’ll linger, I might break your neck,

three times, four, a dozen.’

The storm is coming.


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.

You flipped your flops | Britta Benson

You flipped your flops until they were almost fictional, the stuff of legends. A beautiful memory, exhaling its last.

They were the ones you walked along the beach in. They’d been filled with hopes and sand and ocean, the visions of a lifetime. Bondi Beach, eat your heart out. There was still so much sunshine trapped in the last little layer of decomposing rubber, that see through sole, with such excellent views right to the core of the earth.

You flipped your flops every day with steely determination and shuffled on the soft carpet of our living room, the only surface suitable for those reluctantly clingy, almost immaterial survivors of your younger self. The notion of a student exchange and the other side of the world, still on your feet, just.

Then, one day, I heard you flip down the stairs.

I waited.

Flip.

Waited.

Flip.

Waited and saw, you had a frown on your face, for the flop would no longer follow your flip, had abandoned ship, just like that. Perhaps, it was time to let go? Say goodbye to the flimsy bit of rubber, the spectre of selves long shelved.

Their memory flips and flops on, never stops. Even now, decades later, we both still hear their warm, sunny rhythm, the visit of a friendly ghost. Never did a pair hold so much promise, so much sunshine in so little sole.

But I guess, you’re feet are much warmer now in cosy chunky knit slipper socks.


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.

Autumn Truths | Britta Benson

Summer lingered long, never took.

Light spilled, sat easy, asked for a truce.

Now, laughter darkens, learns to wait.

A season peels off trees in golden ochre, bloodred, rust.

Eyes roll, all colours whisper, no intention of remaining.

‘Hear me’, the caught leaf sings, pinched between two fingers.

I close my fist.

The faintest heartbeat stops.


Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing & common butterfly following German, a writer, performer & linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000.
Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland
Odds & Ends

Not a nice wee girl yet | Britta Benson

She doesn’t use a net. A jam jar does the trick.

She filters, scans and captures summer, beauty,

keeps a tally of her spoils and bottles rainbows,

then watches them bounce off the sides. She smiles

and follows their fight for an afternoon, until one

by one, they end up limp, exhausted on the bottom.

This feels like justice to her, the moment of truth.

Someone’s got to pay the price for this innocence.

Many butterflies will die until she can stand nature

without instantly feeling the need to retaliate.


Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing & common butterfly following German, a writer, performer & linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000.
Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland
Odds & Ends

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