Prose poetry: Somewhere in the Fjords

In my second week with the guys at Just Write (find out more here: we did a piece on prose poetry through guided writing. Creative writing is out of my comfort zone, poetry as a writing form is even further out of it.

I’ve re-read and made some edits to the original draft but this is how i’m leaving it. Comments welcome, this is only my third attempt at creative writing since any GCSE work about 11 years ago so i know it’s not going to be amazing but hopefully it’s alright.

As I sit at the kitchen bench, on a stool with a slight wonk. Not able to write about tea, the thing I drink most. The open plan front room just across the bench from, the smell of the casserole in the oven fills the room. A homely smell. Bargain Hunt is on in the background, that guy with the tash is talking about an old ash tray or something. I start to drift off, to thoughts of somewhere much further north. Looking out across a pebble beach. Dark pebbles, almost black. Met on one side by crisp, white snow. And on the other by a sea of grey. Turned grey by the sky above and the pebbles underneath. Drinking a tea, a piece of cake beside it. Something local, not quite sure what but it’s bloody good. A radio plays in the background. No understanding of the language as of yet so it’s just background noise for now. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and a log fire fill the room and engage the senses. A couple walk across the beach to shop, all wrapped up. But not like a tourist wraps up warm. Not like me. Like locals. Like people who know the cold. Carrying a flask they come into the shop. A stiff blast of cold air sneaks in while the door is open. Up to the counter, they seem to know the staff. Must be a small community. It’s just for a refill and off they go again. Another blast of cold air as they leave. Coat on and ready to brave the cold. Walking up into town the air smells clean and fresh. The path and roads both have snow piled up on the sides. The tyre tracks and footsteps have softened it to slush through the middle of each. Reaching the market place at the end of the path. Rows of stalls, people busy. Moving between each one. The oven buzzer goes off. Time to take the lid of the pot for the last half an hour. They’re onto the auctions now. Some walking stick with a carving of a dog’s head on the top just went for too much money. The red team seem happy. Feeling relaxed now though. Maybe I could move to that beach. To that town. But maybe a holiday first. That’d be canny.

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