Fear
— Gill Gregory 2026
When I was small in my shoes I carried tiny scraps of paper lists in pencil faintingwhere I trod ‒ listen to everyone, listenlisten, listen (white rabbits thunderingthrough tunnels telling time ‒ ) I cut the faded bitsinto tiny scraps of paper I buried them in cornerswell-acquainted with the night ‒ * in my forties I beganto find slim volumes in the cleft of ancient trees.
For Tara
— Gill Gregory 2026
Time beginning with thin slipsof paper in your gift in the palm of a handfresh dreams sifting truth. I stand beside a wellspringimagining you in the stillness of deer and kind hearts.
Without Honour
— Nick Cooke 2026
Art thou not the Jesus we know?The carpenter – old Joseph’s son?Then wherefore believest thou thyselftransformed into the Chosen One? Little of true wrath survivedin he who spread the wings of love;yet that familial mockery(sent, I must assume, from above) poisoned everything I achievedthereafter. What was Mary’s linein suddenly quitting the pastand denying what was mine as announced by the Lord Himselfthrough (could she forget!) the angel?Thirty doting years, it seemed,had proved long enough to change all sense of herself and of her Son.No wonder I turned my backwhen they appeared at Templeseeking me out. And then the lack of support at the very end…Michelangelo be damned:only in John does Mary cometo the Cross, and the door is slammed in her unweeping face when Igive her away to the “disciplewhom I loved”, and off she goeswith him – even the Bible fails to produce a shred of proofof any “Pietà”! And wherewere my brothers and sisters allwhen my clothes were torn and the air rang out with lashes? I hate to thinkthey were down there urging Pilate onbut in the bitterest momentssuch is believable. Upon this sea of gall much good did flow,I suppose, and without itwho can say I’d have been so driven?Thus you can see how it might fit God’s holy plan, which demandeda leader with something to provein the eyes not just of his flock.But this hasn’t sufficed to remove all doubts; and though God knows His motionsmust be slavishly respected,in truth I don’t see Mary muchup here – formal events excepted.
Entrapment
— Nick Cooke 2026
Son of God? In truth I was left uneasy,Wishing it more thought than said. In its placeI revelled in Son of Man: this did keepMy followers entranced but gave less spaceTo those who sought my ruin. God made queasyThe mind so wrapped in faith it longed for sleep. Time proved me wise. The High Priest asked me straightWas I the Son of God, and though I tried(Lord help me) to equivocate, they’d foundThe hint of blasphemy so long denied.What need we further witnesses – the gateOf reason collapsed as I hit the ground… Even the servants beat me. Prophesy!Who is’t that smote thee? What would they have saidIf I had answered, He that denies meAs we speak, e’en as slaves dare touch my head.He that first used the killing phrase doth lie –Three times to your Godforsaken spies he Curses and shrugs; think ye I even feelYour clumsy buffets? I would laugh to scornEach one of you, were mockery the aimOf He who means to drive this final mornTo the bitterest end, and then to stealFirst thunder, then the scene, and last – His Name.
Water and Stone
— Tina Cole 2026
Asked what day it was, you’d gazestraight ahead, sentences awry.On the doorstep brink you’d wait,with bait tin and rod, then turn awayto stare unawares into the blue aquarium. Names and dates slipped away, timesand places playful twisting things.Recognition a slow muscle, an almost dreambeneath the surface like something flickeringin a stream, a shape displaced. Down by the river, that trembling mirror,muddy now and clogged with reedsminnows scatter their silver threads, neveralone or far from safety. They travel in murmurs,whispers of life between water and stone. You always had such timid ways, like these nervouslight flares, skimming edges, slipping furtheraway. A choreography without audience. Nowyou are letting go of the line and me hookedto the bank, marking time.
The Raven Wife
— Tina Cole 2026
He watched mehouse to barn barn to houseegg basket in right handmilk pail in the leftand that day a new lawn dressits full white yardage wrapping my skin. Afternoon light hardened those eyesthe cobbles stum b led up to meet mea hunting knife thrust in my heartthat long terrified cryfarm hands running runninga raven he told them I have killed a raven. They stared at the sprigged dressthe white face the stain that reddenedyes yes of coursea raven they nodded. Spades grated against flintsthey took white handsthey took buttoned bootsthey laid them in the ground. Earth pressed but the heart frothedburst everything once warm into the loamsapling roots wound fingerboneshollow but very whitesap hardened into sinew skin feathers. Soil shaken awayI rose into moonlighta black clot against the sunriseand in the blackthorn blossomhis dark eyes still warmtight pinchedin the apex of my beak.
Once we used witch bottles
— Denni Turp 2026
Ixworth, Wetheringsett, Eyke, and Woodbridge, Ipswich too—in village and in town we believed we knew the waysto hold us safe from wicked witchery, gathered the means, receptacles strong and small but large enough,well corked for sealing, necessaries poured, dripped,pushed in and held. We knew to seek the places most secure, well-hidden, kept from lightof day: hearthside, doorway, woodland, field—a deepnessburied out of sight and range of those who sought our harm, whose charms and spellswrought havoc in our lives. Little enough we had for healing,little enough of little but sufficient of our own to add protection—urine, hair and blood—our substance, spirit—made strong with rosemary and ironto work a last resort. When you find them, think well upon our ways, the powers thesemight endow, and be more wary of the tales they seemto tell and of the tales you make of them, your tales of now.
Lady Greensleeves Answers Back
— Susan Jane Sims 2026
I did not promise youthe future you rehearsed.I wore what pleased me.My body stretched out on grassI absorbed the day’s heat.Became one with the earth that made me. You turned me into a ballad,a sighing refrain.But I was never your sorrow.I was a girl in greenwith sap on her cuffs,with wind in her hair,wanting to choose her own path. The colour fades.It always does.Cloth thins.Songs travel further than the truth.
The Star
— Ant Mac 2026
Sustainer of lifestudied by eyeslevels of lightstudding the sky colourful spectrumblue onto redage old beautywhen colours bled energy stationsignpost in spaceman’s salvationenter the race intergalacticlight years away
Goat’s Cheese Canapes
— Betty Hasler 2026
“But what do you do all day?”A herd of women have left their men with the beerto jostle for position by the mulled wine ladle,bragging of what they do to keep their brains alive and their bodies thin,and how they do good to those who do not eat goat’s cheese canapes. “But what do you do all day?”The shrill bray pierces the chatter at the buffet,is aimed at me, in itchy cocktail dress and squashed feetwho doesn’t do yoga or sing in a choir or play bridge or sit on committeesdoing good to those who do not eat goat’s cheese canapes. “But what do you do all day?”Alone in the melee I ponder the ways I spend my time:how I fondle a flower, raise my face to the rain, dream by the fire,sometimes pause on the stairs to look through the window of my life,remembering the times when I did not eat goat’s cheese canapes. “But what do you do all day?”With a clove on my tongue and spice at the back of my throat,I raise my glass to the sparkling light of the crystal chandelier,inhale the heady odour of dark red wine, then swallow the ecstasy of existing.“Not much” I say, popping into my mouth yet another goat’s cheese canape.
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.