We missed you
— Marion Horton 2023
Lawn saturated, rippled. Magpies strut in the shallows.Fences dark with wet seep into the soil. A pump chutters where a stepping stone once was.A thick rope of silver gushes down a drain. The mooncreeps over, prickling the stream, watching it run. Last summer we would have sung for such a deluge. We think of the zealous zookeeper and his ark.Keeping peace and hope afloat. Prayingholes would not appear below the water line. We are sinking now. Attenborough, politely accusing,voices the brink of it. Infusing eachbreathless pause with guilt. But then, last week, amongst the politics and strikes,beavers graced our screens, their prints traced inEnglish mud and silt, turning back centuries,their thick glossy coats weaving through the water.
Remembering Passchendaele
— Cathryn Spiller 2023
The black doorThe long passageThe dark stairsThe single bulb on the landingI look up,No, don’t look up Two closed doors,Then a warm kitchen,Nanny in a pinny,Huge white sink with a tapI cannot reach or turnMother’s Pride bread with luncheon meat. I go eagerly to Nanny,reaching up for a cuddle,more gingerly to Grandad,Wild white hair,Wobbly wordsAnd a slobbery kiss. I sit across the table from Him,Net curtains hide the outside,And the dark fence.Both chairs are back to the window, Facing the brown tiled wallKettle on the gas High backed armchair,Imposing.Beautiful eyes,that pierce your soul.His face is worn,And folded wrong. Nanny pours tea,through a stainless-steel strainer,from a big brown teapot.The dregs are left behind. Another closed door,Another dark fence,The table a chasm.Me eating a fondant fancyHim hearing bullets,Awash in mud,Running from the gas he knows is coming.Don’t look up.
Cataclysm
— Cathryn Spiller 2023
The wave erupted, ascended, and appeared to pause at its apex before it fell.A white deluge screaming the banshees as it brokein shards of bitter pain upon the rocks The storms continued to roll, sometimes a pounding, unforgiving torrent,sometimes a continuous, cold soaking.Muddy and paltry, eating away at his spirit Who knows which one took him in the end?Life was cold.The emptiness ached.The not making it jibesThe not good enough looksThe one friend he had, coffined at thirty-two Loss, lack-lustre, self-loathing, isolation.The Cataclysm was hard to see:But the waves crashed over his head just the same.He could not outrun it.They found him in the bath.
Sock Puppet
— Patricia Brody 2023
The only way you could go to school was to wearthe sock puppet on your hand.Grandma bought it at a fair, white tube transformedinto a monster. Yarn-black eyes, huge red mouth, which openedand snapped shut fiercelywith the motion of your child-hand.R-rrrrr! you could growl. I’m going to eat you!said the puppet’s fire-tongue. You were four, in the forest, gnashing at your wild things.You couldn’t speak, but the snarling puppet spoke for you.Snap! Snarl!I’m going to eat you for my dinner! The little boys in the room would look up,a tiny bit impressed.A girl might even cry. You’d remain utterly silent, closed-inbehind your cast-down eyes.No monster there. But the puppet advanced into the class.Your other hand, your shiny hair, your curved lips, revealed nothing –– to the others. There I come behind you, squeezing between miniature chairsin my bulky coat. My hand sneaks a touchof your small, tight shoulder, I don’t look down. Oh for a deep draught of puppet-firea magic potion, for both of us.
The child collector
— Angie Butler 2023
The child collector viewed the sceneShe was not a benevolent intruderShe was loved by allThey knew they had, what she had notBut what they didn’t know was its real impactThe raw longingThe sadnessThe rageThe hopelessnessThe child collector had all these in turnAnd worseAnd worseIt began to scar her life, take over her being,her whole mind.but she was powerless; there was nothing she could do,But in her way, she collected them.By having their pictures on her desk,cute videos on her phone,messages she would save and share with her friends,she would show them,She had children and grandchildren doing wonderful things,just like theirs.
A bold sweep of grey for quiet rainy contemplative days
— Angie Butler 2023
The months fly by like large brush strokes across an autumn canvas. A bold sweep of grey for quiet contemplative rainy days,yellow and blue, the sandy beach and sunny sky.Green and purple are the rambling moors, studded now with richer, heather ways.Dark charcoal cliffs, as autumn storms surge on these sparkling granite rocks,need splashes, turquoise and white for crashing waves on coloured blocks. And time to search a finer brush to add the details of the life I see,the circling choughs, the buzzing bees,the skeletons of time, the leaning windblown trees,or slow bent walkers on the coastal path,who make their way amidst the vibrant coconut gorse. These big brush strokes, their placing on my canvas,let me step back each day in admiration and due thankswith those who hold them in their hands,for these exquisite pictures shared, of seaside banks,and daily love on this my autumn canvas lands.
My Circle
— Judy Dinnen 2023
It’s therethe round womb of stones,the hug of bush and herb,sometimes herald of yellow,perfume of chive and thrift,this ancient refuge, pen place,with carved slate, dragonfly symbol, and curved walls,round of whisper and wonder,cell of prayer and mystique,this neglected but not forgottengo-to-place, where stories dwell,poems reverberate, wisdom loves and time knows no end.find yourself there, step intoits welcome, address its offeringand bide there, taste unbrokenpromises, mark untravelled steps,sometime unwritten alphabet, hold its caregently take its gifts,as it spreadsits skirtsas it curtsiesand spills its colourinto your life. The Hawthorns Circle
Closing the door on Number 5
— Susan Jane Sims 2023
When we closed the door on number 5part of me diedand part of me felt relief that it was gone, the house my mum feltas a noose around her neck,the crooked steps that Dad builtin our yard. Up there I could gaze at starslight years away,dig in clay and think of my ancestorsin their wattle and daub houses. At sun down I’d still be therewatching for Mr Edward’s pigeons to come home,silver wings beating through cold night air, and him in his vest and bracesand big yellow umbrella waving them in.
About the editor
Poet, editor and artist, Susan Jane Sims has been running Poetry Space since 2010. She has three collections to her name and has edited or joint-edited many anthologies. Poetry Space is a social enterprise operating from Susan’s home in Beaminster, Dorset, where she is also a chef in the food and arts business she runs with her husband Chris (Tangerine Cafe & Gallery). She has been a poet in schools for many years, a judge in a regional heat of The Poetry by Heart competition and a Hawthornden Fellow in 2018. Susan loves nothing better than bringing people together with community events; her latest venture is a monthly collage group supported by Dorset START.