By Britta Benson
what holds the coast together?
The moon, mostly,
pushing the wet sand back where it belongs,
grain by grain,
only taking, what she needs,
and leaving the rest free to roam.
Crests of generosity work wonders,
day and night.
especially the broken ones,
with their infinite edges,
fjords of remembrance.
The frosted smooth faces of sea glass,
tiny rainbows of loss,
the translucent tears of hope.
Undersized pebbles weaving in and out
blackest of rocks,
boulders of grace.
The spray, the spit,
the grit of determination.
These are the paperweights
keeping the world in her place.
Add the fickle beauty of thrift,
sending up pink rosy globes of dawn,
of futures to behold,
dreams far beyond the possibility of a horizon.
And then, don’t forget,
the dense grey green tufts of marram grass,
standing guard with spiky blades,
strong as swords,
its roots matted,
steadfast clusters of our past.
what holds a soul together?
The answer is pretty much the same.
Britta Benson is a German writer and circus performer thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000.