Life sings from tall conifers, by Britta Benson

Here’s a little scene from my garden today. It’s not exactly a glorious summer. Still, life sings… Life sings from tall conifers In my tiny garden, perched on a camping chair, notepad in my lap, eyes closed, ears pricked, hoping to find the perfect notation for nature’s breath. Feel a slight nip in the rippleContinue reading “Life sings from tall conifers, by Britta Benson”

My picturesque…, by Britta Benson

My contribution to the ‘picturesque’ prompt on Sammi Cox blog (https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2022/06/18/weekend-writing-prompt-264-picturesque/) has to start with a picture. Trust me, it will explain a lot. I am not making this up. I am also not consuming dubious substances. The strongest thing I drink is milky tea. So, behold. Brian, the snail. I do apologize to allContinue reading “My picturesque…, by Britta Benson”

Marguerites after the rain, by Britta Benson

This poem is my response to Rebecca Cuningham’s June Poetry Challenge. Rebecca runs a monthly poetry challenge on her blog http://www.fakeflamenco.com. What makes her poetry prompt unique is the fact that she not only publishes all the contributions on her blog, she also translates each of the poems into Spanish. So if you ever wantContinue reading “Marguerites after the rain, by Britta Benson”

School day, by Britta Benson

Every day’s a school day – or so the saying goes. Here’s a poem on that theme. School day My garden breathes slower this sping. Some leaves hesitant, shy, unconvinced, tight little buds, slightly indecisive. Foxgloves, perennial survivors of old, this time last year they stood three foot high. Today, anxious groundlovers, scared of height,Continue reading “School day, by Britta Benson”

This is the time of year, by Britta Benson

I’ve got a gardening poem for you today, bit of a trip down memory lane. Then and now, life in all its layers. Sometimes it feels like time, too is layered, not linear. This is the time of year This is the time of year my dad would gather seed catalogues on our coffee table,Continue reading “This is the time of year, by Britta Benson”

Ivy, by Britta Benson

More nature poetry today. I had a good long look at the ivy in my front garden. Here’s the result. Ivy! Blind wayfinder, pirate, tactile master of persistence, bridgebuilder, protector, creator of new habitats and dead ends, your forever curious tentacles sneak in all directions of the compass rose, explore the gaps in this world,Continue reading “Ivy, by Britta Benson”

Why I sit in my garden, by Britta Benson

I’ve got a piece of nature writing for you to day. Unglamorous and unapologetic. Here goes: Why I sit in my garden? To close my eyes, inhale the temperature of life, explore the smell of now. Starlings and blue tits comment on the state of affairs, find love in the rowan tree. The wing ofContinue reading “Why I sit in my garden, by Britta Benson”

Just checking, by Britta Benson

Just checking Nature is up to mischief so close to the summer solstice, and I’m on high alert. Trouble flares when two birds on the highest branch negotiate the state of their relationship. In broad daylight! Oblivious to who might listen in to their noisy disputes. Beneath them, darkened ferns wake up and stretch, uncurlContinue reading “Just checking, by Britta Benson”

June, by Britta Benson

June The evening sunlight enters my garden like a long lost friend, poised with wonders and offering no explanations. Only smiles go deeper. Hands clasp, souls embrace. We observe each other eye to eye, almost equals. My friend is long gone before I feel the chill in my bones, alone. Unkissed. With a longing forContinue reading “June, by Britta Benson”

Morning mist, by Britta Benson

Morning mist The morning mist strides in thick and fast, craving sly glances of my mortified soul. My neighbours have all disappeared, swallowed up whole along with their houses. The world stops a few steps into my garden. I’m set against this white grey veil, beyond lies untold mystery and fairy folk, protected by tinyContinue reading “Morning mist, by Britta Benson”

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