Scheurer’s Green
— Jan Moran Neil 2026
Matilda Scheurer painted and preenedpretty poisoned wreaths in shades of green.Wealthy fashionable women’s attirewere drop dead gorgeous and subtly dire.Hats and gloves and even the seamsof emerald ball gowns were all dyed greenby Matilda Scheurer’s deeply stained tintin hues of apple moss, forest fern, mint. When suddenly her fingernails turned lime shade;the whites of her eyes the colour of glade.Everything she saw had a patina of green.She foamed at the mouth and even her spleenwas coated in a shade of Paris green. Matilda Scheurer was only nineteenwhen she fluffed those leaves in shades of green.And inhaling her last green breath she died –of that Victorian devil: arsenic trioxide. For Matilda Scheurer, 1842–1861
Breakfast at Skukuza
— Jan Moran Neil 2026
And what quintessence of dustare you my beautiful buck,ballerina of the bushveld,tomorrow’s breakfast? A rhetorical question. What remains?Not even the bones of youwhen the scavengers are doneculled and absorbed as you might beinto the innards of one more powerful. At daybreak we eat soft-boiled eggsas Jacob says,‘She survived the night.Random scrolling.’
Deer on Purgatory
— Patricia Brody 2026
On rusty bikes we pedal the road by the seaOcean left / meadow right(Daughter a lilac streak in the dusk)Loom loam island rushThe smell of wild thymeThese herbs: Sea lavender white hibiscus rosehipHeather cattail scrub sageLast evening five deerCome to sup on salty seaside grass: Such succulent dining!≈Three young bucks, a doe,White-spotted fawn still spindly – –Daughter a lilac streak in the duskWe biked to the crest, in the evening’s cool relief.Inhaled the meadow tea: Grass, mint, rosemarythis nerve, this island pungencyBike field fog sea≈One of the bucks stalked us:Strode his slender, fine-turned limb with its hoofInhaled our breath in the evening’s coolCrack & roar of rising tideRocks mussels waves mess ≈≈≈All to my right sweet lilac green the girlRumble Crash off to the left Thick, white, wet fogAhead … behindWhat did he mean to impart to us, antlers spread to the sky?Stared me straight in the eye. His hoof raised,he stomped, snorted as if he would lunge ––to chasten the girl at my side & me? The smell of wild thyme.
Blood Relatives
— Patricia Brody 2026
Slicing rare beef, she hears chatter from the cooking showher husband watches daily,We’re in Budapest, Bourdain says, Let there be blood!Let it be in this form, let the blood squirtacross your plate when you press itwith your fork Her husbandfrom Poland, eats pork, and she, not koshereats it too, at Christmas with cloves.He’s never got used to being un-nativeAnd they joke about Godhis, hers, they talk Jesus, they talk liver,talk chicken fat vs. butter.Not to stray from the beastthey love best: he who meows keenlyat the door, this buttery boy is who she would beif she were four-legged.Siamese dancer, seal-point so cuddled –Do you know how they look: Black nose,four black paws, black tail, black, apple-heart shaped face,snowy chest and body, blue eyes crossed,peering, peering into your eyes come morning.
After Brief Encounter
Work and Duty
— Johanna Boal 2026
In the beginning, at the train station: bells and whistles chimed.His careful hands specialised, pry apart her eyepicking out the coal grit, boiling water for the tea,steam rising and paint peeling on the walls. She thought of a miner – his high-visibility clothing –the gabardine coat, teacups clinked, engine drivers chatting,hanging from the big ceiling the chandelier actedas his hard hat with Davey lamp lit the refreshment room. Casually they meet on Thursdays to watch the filmsintense and emotional Rachmaninov music:Back at the station, engines running, ticket inspectors,the black soot on the tracks once in the seam of a wall of coal, honourable backbone, they want to love each other but the heavy-dutymachinery of convention – married to other people.Both aware of the tearoom assistant tidying the table and chairs.She cries at home and her husband thanks her for coming back to him.
In My Hands
— Johanna Boal 2026
Don’t look at the exterior of my handsignore the chipped nail varnish, broken nail,bruised fingers, look at the muscle and bonessee how precisely they connect. In the fields, think about the frameworksee beneath the surfacethe dragging ropes tied togetherrolling stones, see in the grass and mud. Digging networks – deserts and watersand, lime came in small and large stones,neatly piled in size order for the workpeople gathered with their hands. Carving and slicing, scrape and cutred blood oozing contrasting coloursblackbirds, lichen, seasons – bronze worthy sculpturesformed dry stone walls in North Yorkshire.
After Ellen Bass
The thing is
— Susan Jane Sims 2026
There is another grief —an add-on grief to what has come before.Like a snake sloughingoff its skinand coming back just as fresh. I don’t say yes to life.I have always found lifemore complex than that.I don’t refuse it either. I make tea.I write things down.I notice the tree outside the windowdoing what trees dowithout asking permission.A squirrel runs its branches,quick as lightning. I read a message about my grandchildren.I smile. This life is a series of happenings.Some choice, yes. Some random events.Some fate perhaps? Yet here’s the thingWhatever the occurrence,I can choose my response to it.Hour by hour,minute by minute.I can choose.
The end of Rose’s life
— Judy Dinnen 2026
Slowly Rose’s life was dismantled,her favourite chair, the cornflowerblue tea set, once her mother’s,the brown, tiled mantlepieceand the grey, pottery horsethat grazed there, shelves onceladen with her jam, all in the skip.Slowly her days and nightswere torn into minutes, ticks,and then awkward oblivion.Her stories and words werepicked syllable from syllable.The darts of her life were steeredinto the heartless, metal skip.Her friend watched as the skipfilled with cupboards and hope.She sighed and felt a fragmentof herself tip into the high,orange vessel bound for ignominy.‘Rose, I’ll remember you!’She muttered to the damp air.
Apple and Pomegranate
— Judy Dinnen 2026
I slip between the hangingsof the years,looking for light.In the arena of time, I pace.It appears in my dream,a sliver of light,light freed into gold,blue, green, apple, pomegranate,the dream world of my soul.The room is there,bathed in mystery,stepping stone to the present.The glow is minimal,incense barely perceptible,plain song, heaven’s murmur.One thing I know is, I’m alive.
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.