June 6th
— Andrew Scotson 2024
Today’s sky is blue and clouds, wispthin, meander across above his head.The sea calm, waves breaking notbitterly are gently returning sand tothe beach it borrowed from the nightbefore. His chair leaves thin tracks as they pushhim, well wrapped, from the path towardthe water his hand rises, a thin bony fingerpointing at a long lost illusion. His lips are mouthing words and she bendsher head the better for to hear, he is talkingabout the noise, something about a tank andabout a Sergeant Major.. and in his head a plane flies low overhead andthey crouch lower still moving forward, explosionsfollow and his breathing quickens, the man in frontis signalling and shouting words that no one canhear, they follow as best they can except for onewho falls choking back blood that won’t stop,they can’t wait but keep running towards that whichthey fear… She holds his hand and prays to God that they canreturn together next year, one more year, it is allshe can ask for now. One more time to lay flowerson white tombstones and say prayers on sand thaterases everything in the end.
Falls Of Dochart
— Andrew Scotson 2024
Knelt by the slow wide river which receives its tributeeach day from the steep fields of the surrounding hills.Watching as a Kingfisher, a flash of blue and sunburstorange, stabs a small silver, wriggling fish before returningto the dark bank. Flat stones carry the gentle current to the old touristbridge and you make your barefoot way out into themiddle of the Tay. You can see Ben Lawers still christenedwith snow and her angry sisters staring down on the black,rippled water of the Loch. From here the river will quickly pick up pace and becomedeeper and more hostile fighting the salmon as they jumpagainst cruel rocks. It rushes the two mile gap between thesleepy village of Killin to Loch Tay. Your naked feet can feelthe chill born of melted snow which crosses the flattenedrocks and journeys ever on.
Farm Garden
— Julie Sampson 2024
simplicity’s white snow-shiftheartbeat time before language snowdropsspillingbells a girl’s singing springfor Daddy and out over near the quarry in Whitemoormassacre of the new-born lambstheir eyes gorged out by scavenger crows, and the Big Scatteringthe discombobulated teddypulled apartthey say, by foxes.
Singing with the Owls
— Julie Sampson 2024
We’re talking with the owlstalking with the conversing tawny owlshigh upin the golden fir KeewickWoo wooh. Our elbows perch the ledgein Michael’s room,icicles dropping from the sill, Keewick.Woo woo. Luna above,her blues tonightreleasing batsin phantasmagoricalswirls& high-pitched squeaksfrom flowery clouds. Keewickthey call,Woo huhuhuhooTu whit tu whit. Our breath a wispof winter mistescaping from the hollow of our close-cupped palms – callsdoppler,diminuendo.
A life renewed
— Leela Gautam 2024
The oceangulps the sea,Man entersthe open space,Finds a place,builds a castle,digs a moat,carves his storyin the sand.Man sits back,pain slides downhis cheeks,merges with the grain,Eyes close,he lies back. He is done.A pause, a stillness,The winds rise,currents reverse,The ocean regurgitates the sea,Gently,then with force.Man’s constructiondisappears, his story clears.The waves hoisthim high, carries himto shore and safely.Tides rise, recede,Man turns, walks away,freed.His burden divested,his life renewed.
Acknowledgement
— Susan Jane Sims 2024
We recognize the land as an act of reconciliation and gratitude to those whose territory we reside on or are visiting and acknowledge the many First Nations peoples who have lived in and cared for these lands for generations. Frequently on our trip to Alberta and British Columbia,we encounter notices like this.In museums, in galleries, at the theatrewhere we watch Guys and Dolls. The announcer at the theatre is the most honest.An acknowledgement is not support, but it’s a start. At the hot springs in Banff we learn how this sitewas discovered in the nineteenthcentury by European settlers. Then used for leisureby those with wealth. At the museum we learn how those springswere loved and respected for thousands of years.How a people fought to keep them;to keep a way of life in harmonywith nature. We are told how a treaty was drawn up and never honoured.how a multitude of lives were lost,languages and culture swept away;children separated from families and communities. Yes a notice is no where near enoughBut it’s a start.
Frittering
— Marion Horton 2024
Idly I watch three swallowssoar over baked roofs.One bounces its chest offan invisible pillow of airthat strings across my balcony,trampolining out of sight intothe Wednesday morning breeze. The latticed arm of a tower craneswings across my view –a sundial notchingeach segment of timewith a metal pause. A black flag snapsabove the crane’s jib.A pirate ship – its Jolly Rogerwarning it is primed to stealtrinkets of time,medallions of minutes,hoards of hours. As if it knowsof my carelessnesswith the clock.How I will ignore its valuewhen others do not.
Seeing into the future
— Judy Dinnen 2024
I search for a stone, an island stone,in its centre a hole.I can see the sea and light,blue and sparkle.They say you can see the futurethrough its eye. I am sitting on shingle,wet from waves. I peer throughthe eye, hope to see tomorrowor next year.The waves rumble and toss foam.Light catches the high spray. Will tomorrow be framed incertainty, round as an egg?hard and smooth or shinyand obdurate?Will next year glisten?Will it toss and turn,sharing secrets, wearing surprise? Clouds mask the light.Grey enters the frame.Maybe tomorrow will comein shades of gloom and doubt.Maybe the rumble and roar arewarnings, dark voices? I put the stone back on its shelf.It wobbles, then settles.It knows no more than me.
A boy with a telescope
— Judy Dinnen 2024
A boy with a telescope,became what he saw. Hewas alone, yet twinned withthe bay, waves, and inlet. swooping birds, innocent wavessmall boy with questionsin his head. Who am I?he wondered, rocking slightly. He spied the gaunt rock face,frowning in the sun, staringdown on his small questions,his long, stony future. He turned his scope inland,a village, tiny dwellings,feather people. Saw mamaand papa a long way off studied their silence andmystery. Who am I? hetried the waves or therocks? No one answered. He recalled the classroom,other children, their games,he, alone, by the school gate.Was he like them? He mused. Through his telescopehe sees tomorrow, morequestions, stony faces, fightsflights, climbingover hillstowards a rainbow,flowers, banners.
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.