Sir John Betjeman is now England's Poet Laureate, and the recent brouhaha over his silver anniversary poem to the Queen is a sign of the dangers of being too public a poet (still, it always seemed to me that if he had to use an adverb to modify her blue eyes, "profoundly" would do as nicely as anything else). But A Nip in the Air proves him to be … an accomplished writer of light verse, with a gusto for ordinary life and an affection for odd angles of vision. Once again we have somber themes amiably treated. Hardyesque horrors rise from seasonal descriptions:

          What misery will this year bring
          Now spring is in the air at last?
          For, sure as black thorn bursts to snow,
          Cancer in some of us will grow.
                                        (pp. 311-12)

Although contentment sometimes comes dangerously close to Tory smugness [Betjeman has been called too...