Most people, when they visit Staffin, go to the slipway where you can see the footprints of a family of dinosaurs at low tide. It’s a great spot. I prefer the other beach in Staffin, a little further to the north, marked only by a tiny wooden sign and then requiring another walk to get there. Today I went to that shingle beach, a place I know well. I have already spent quite a few hours there, just sitting and listening to the noise of the sea gushing through the shingles. Extremely therapeutic. As always, I came away much happier and of course also with a poem. Enjoy!
The Shingle Beach in Staffin
I sit on the darkest grey stones
and listen to the waves
rushing through these smooth rocks.
The sea turns the beach black in her wake,
before retreating noisily,
like a very messy eater
clicking, clacking, on and on
in sheer unadulterated delight.
Every shingle a click,
every other a clack.
Someone is enjoying this meal.
Greedy white fingers
reach out for my soul,
this scrawny, caged bird
that weighs a tonne.
The crests swirl close and closer,
in a rush to get to the table
and I watch them circle my feet.
I sit on the darkest grey stones,
the water’s strong tentacles
reach out,
grab my soul
and yank it straight out of me.
What a sticky, dirty runt
in need of a rinse!
I watch my inners get pushed
back and forth
through the thousands of shingles,
every rock on this beach
clicking, clacking,
eating up and then licking the plate.
I watch as undiluted bitterness
along with grimey gunk
that should never have stuck
gushes back into the sea,
simply slips through the rocks
and into the blue
with a click and a clack,
and a salty goodbye
as though it belongs.
Britta Benson
Odds & Ends - Poetry Blog 