Whatever the dragon, by Britta Benson

Whatever the dragon I’m plotting with the snippets of my second worst nightmare. Close my eyes instinctively and burst into years of almost probable impossibilities. In my head I burn, I drown, fall down the stairs and break my frightened souls all over again. Bones will heal in time and yet I’m sure I’ll comeContinue reading “Whatever the dragon, by Britta Benson”

On seeing a black spider in my bathroom basin, by Britta Benson

On seeing a black spider in my bathroom basin She’s like a matt black star in a shiny white sky. I name her Stella and I scream only on the inside. She’s the size of my thumbnail, a mighty behemoth in a tiny universe where scale and perspective are everything. I close the door andContinue reading “On seeing a black spider in my bathroom basin, by Britta Benson”

Countdown to my six-word-memoir, by Britta Benson

Countdown to my six-word-memoir I’ve got ten minutes to make this work. I’ll need three just to make a cup of tea, leaves me seven for my masterpiece! Six, actually, I got distracted by a robin sitting on the fence and giving it loudy. Five – the tick and tock, I hate that clock onContinue reading “Countdown to my six-word-memoir, by Britta Benson”

Six true sentences about scars, by Britta Benson

Six true sentences about scars One A can opener can be a monstrous murder weapon for a left-hander like me, it opened my knuckles and cut the skin right off while the tin of sliced peaches remained perfectly unscarred, though speckled with blood, an unusual recipe for a Sunday pudding. Two Scars punctuate my bodyContinue reading “Six true sentences about scars, by Britta Benson”

Closer, by Britta Benson

Closer It’s always about distance. We’re bonding over fears of loss. Hope strikes joyful, like a lottery ticket in a back pocket, washed, wishing for thunder, lightning, and a bag of sherbet lemons to share. We hold hands across the time zones of life and death. It’s always about distance. Ask commuters on a rushContinue reading “Closer, by Britta Benson”

This is not about me, by Britta Benson

What do I love about poetry? Easy. It brings out aspects of my soul that I might have overlooked otherwise, that I might not even have noticed, had I not taken the time to sit and write a wee poem. A poem, that is not about me, and therefore, of course, all the more aboutContinue reading “This is not about me, by Britta Benson”

My world is small, by Britta Benson

My world is small My world is small and full of concrete. A window, my tiny garden where plants thrive or don’t. I hug a mug of milky tea to keep my fingers warm and to anchor my soul somewhere safe. Inside me, though, there is a paradise, a white sandy beach and the endlessContinue reading “My world is small, by Britta Benson”

At the last light of day, by Britta Benson

At the last light of day At the last light of day, I resolutely hold out for that festering ray of darkest orange fire in the sky. I can taste the sour tang, the ‘why’ of night in waiting, baited by my shallow breath. When I’m sure the sun’s been swallowed whole by raven-blue clouds,Continue reading “At the last light of day, by Britta Benson”

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