If (as in Robin Skelton's first poem) 'the numbering disc' is the dial of a telephone, what etiolated banality cringes in the shadows of (his book's title) The Hunting Dark? Or in those of 'the rivering dark'? Or the 'vast unravelling dark'? The 'hunting dark' would seem to be the preying doubt to which the middle-aged are particularly prone and Skelton, no exception, confirms his anxiety by haunting the scenes of his past. While the tone is well controlled and there are no histrionics, the information that places have changed, that people have died and that 'no dead awake' does not help to convince the reader of the necessity for these reminiscences.

His past accounted for, Skelton brings us up to date with the self-abnegating candour of the confessional poet who reports his lusts, his worries and the contents of his mirror: 'At forty sensual enough, no grey...