Still, by Britta Benson


I’m hiding underneath the song of birds.

The witch’s cackle of caterwauling sea

gulls protects the familiar whisper of my

breath, the steady drum of my heartbeat.

I’m hatching plans under cover in the

warmth of the late morning sun, create

and unleash worlds yet to be travelled.

I’m still here, I’m healing, breaking and

healing again. I’m still becoming me as

this life unfolds, still young, despite being

old. The rhythm of my stillness leaves

a catalogue of very worthwhile failures.

Britta Benson

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