Abstract
At the time of writing this book, William Robertson was a homemaker. His poems bring a new passion to the ancient domestic scene, and to everything else he looks at out of that often-turbulent centre. He ventures with care "into a swelling sea/ of silted meanings" equipped with his own elegant flexible vernacular, shaped precisely to the task of lighting up the trials and wonders of ostensibly ordinary days. These poems ring like crystal-hard edges of a tender heart.