Matthew Mead’s second collection of poems will hold the attention of all who found in his Identities (1967) an exciting consummation of his concern with ‘our time’, with poetic experiment, and with ‘the single poetic theme’. ‘His poems speak soberly of the essential things of our time,’ wrote Christopher Middleton; and Derek Parker commented in the Poetry Review ‘… Mead’s poems are carved out of intractable material, unlikely to warp with time. If they have not a permanent place, then the pressure of fashion is greater than one hopes.’