Spare key, by Britta Benson

Came across the key to my first flat today, while tidying up. I’ve kept it in a tiny box, a memento of decades ago and the inspiration for my poem. Spare key This one still dreams in a tiny cardboard box, more appropriate for an engagement ring than the key to my first ever flat.

Easier time, by Britta Benson

I’m working on a contribution about the theme of ‘time’ right now. Here’s a poem I wrote over the last couple of days. Not entirely sure it’s done, but I like it. Constructive feedback more than welcome. Easier time Easier time withdrew into the curl of a fist with seedlike patience. Sooner, soon, roots and

Autumn truths, by Britta Benson

I have been waiting for this moment! Autumn has well and truly arrived in my part of Scotland. This is my favourite season and I can’t wait to pack it into poetry. Here’s my starter. Autumn truths Summer lingered long, never took. Light spilled, sat easy, asked for a truce. Now, laughter darkens, learns to

Where all stories lie, by Britta Benson

Today, I’ve got a short poem about the process of writing for you. A few simple notes about our craft. Enjoy! Where all stories lie Sooner sings no songs. Barely picks at the black hood of unease and crispness threads her way through pressing trees. The years peel twilight from this haunted forest, comb out

A lovely sunset, by Britta Benson

So here’s my question for today: What do you say, when you walk along the beach and see the most beautiful sunset start, develop and… die? On my evening walk, I struggled for word, my brain went into overdrive and then, I passed an old man, sitting on a bench, simply enjoying the spectacle. ‘That’s

The map, by Britta Benson

Today’s poem is based on an observation I made on the ferry crossing from Cairnryan in Scotland to Belfast in Northern Ireland. I watched two elderly ladies in full waking gear getting a map out, discussing their plans and then, trying to fold the map back into its original shape – we’ve all been there.

In the days, by Britta Benson

This time, two years ago, I was sitting at my mum’s bedside, waiting for her to die. After fourteen months of fighting leukaemia, my mum had decided it was time to stop fighting. I spent ten very intense days with her, watching her transition from here to there. A quiet death. Dad and I held

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 of

To a word, by Britta Benson

While I can sit down and write prose pretty much any time of the day, poetry is different. I don’t get away with being 90% present, attentive, not even 95% will do. Poetry asks for more and that’s exactly why I fell in love with this demanding beast. It tolerates no excuses. There are no

At the end of the day, by Britta Benson

I had a very productive day and am a bit surprised that at the end of it, I’m left with a rather melancholy poem. Or, is it? At the end of the day At the end of the day, I have a few questions. Where did the cold go after I was done with it?