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Listening in, by Britta Benson

My favourite spot in Portree is the bench at the top end of the Meall, with a view over the bay. I spend quite a bit of time up there in poetical bliss, the mothership of inspiration, a beautiful place so close to the village and yet so far away from everything that is not sublime, deep and wonderful. Here’s one of the poems I wrote there today.

Listening in

I listen to the sea,

for I know there are stories,

old and new and yet to be dreamt of

in the top blue, the fickle emerald,

the secret gems.

There are tales

in the frolicking waves,

and the frothy white crests.

All the surface a melody,

scratched by ships in eager progress.

Sparkling ripples show off

with the virtuous flourish

of a keen and colourful tune.

I listen deeper,

where the harmonies widen the lines

and break up shapes with a vengeance

like and off course vessel hitting the rocks.

Destinations disintegrate, crumble, cease.

It’s quiet down here,

despite the unspeakable drama,

in the home of the cold,

the darkest silence,

the bottom of truth

and solitude.

Britta Benson


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