Sitting in the dunes before leaving, by Britta Benson

I left Montrose today. I’ll miss my lookout, my vantage point from the dunes… Sitting in the dunes before leaving Rainbows rising from the water mists of rolling waves, crashing iridescence. Droplets dance on rumbles from below. Wind, wind, wind. Sun watches, witness, stage hand, then hides behind a cloud. Two oyster catchers, unimpressed, look

The art of sitting, by Britta Benson

The art of sitting On your waterproof poncho, folded out flat on the beach. I want to be touching distance to the sea. You know this is silly, and we laugh as we sink deep and deeper into March-cold sand. On a wooden bench, side by side above the bay, basking in sunshine, clumps of

Deep water poetess, by Britta Benson

This poem is my response to Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt: https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/20204174/posts/3869536963 This week’s prompt is ‘Rune’, in 96 words. I went for a walk on one of my favourite beaches today in North Berwick and looking at the wet sand, I saw all the little marks, dips, crevasses left by the sea, constantly changing.

The shell, by Britta Benson

Every now and again, I write a love poem. I know, embarrassing. But every now and again, I don’t mind embarrassment. So here goes, full on lovely. The shell I walk along the endless beach, pick up one tiny shell. Not a perfect specimen, not even whole, there are odd bits, discoloured. It’s been dead

A calm overcast day on Burntisland beach, by Britta Benson

Give me a beach, any day of the week, please give me a beach! This could be my mantra. I love spending time at a beach and do exactly that whenever possible. One of the lovely extras of living in Scotland is that I’m never that far from a beach. Today, I went to Burntisland

In the sand dunes, by Britta Benson

I went for a walk on the east coast today, along the cliff top walk in Dunbar, finishing off in Belhaven Bay. As I lay in the sand dunes, I watched the waves of the incoming tide and thought, that I could quite happily stay here forever. Here’s the poem I wrote on that beach.

The beach comber, by Britta Benson

One of my favourite things to find on a beach is sea glass, the colourful, matt pebbles, old fragments of glass that have been battered by the ocean and all that is in it. Yesterday, a friend sent me a picture of a dress made with sea glass and I thought about how I use

Sitting on a shingle beach, by Britta Benson

You’d think I’d written enough poems about sitting on a shingle beach by now. Apparently, I haven’t. I can’t really explain why, but the black shingle beaches on the Isle of Skye have done things to my soul I will be eternally grateful for. By the way, there are lovely white sandy beaches on Skye

On a beach, by Britta Benson

I love walking along a beach. There is just something about sand and water and all the broken debris, shells and the surprises you can find there. This evening, upon walking along Portree harbour, I wrote the following poem. You can always spot a poet on the run… armed with a notebook, pencil at the