Tree Language is told in shard-like poems of supreme richness and
finely balanced darkness - variously shaped, whittled to a point,
almost sharp enough to draw blood. And although this is a book
spiked with brambles and skeletal branches, shot through with frost
and fossilled with plant-bones, blood is the slick thread that sews
together its themes and landscapes: war and personal tragedy,
daffodils and poppies, Jerusalem, Scotland, colour and desolation.
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