
But, thankfully, the poems do justify the occasion. It would be awful if such a job were ruined by typographical errors or simply bad poems but in the title poem especially, Jeff Turner turns in one of his finest, well-crafted meditative performances in which,
I'd say I don't believe in ghosts
But perhaps that's saying I've no belief
In pain or warmth.
Those of us who know a few Turner poems are accustomed to the keenly observed small details of quiet moments and the equanimity of the conclusions taken from them. Ghosts is one of those rare poems that I come across that I immediately look back on and wish I'd written it myself (even if it's highly unlikely that I could have).
The other two poems, Benches and November, reflect on more violent scenes before ending equally quietly and both are fine poems. But what you are buying from Gruffyground here is a collaboration between poet and press, a symbiotic relationship through which each has enhanced the contribution of the other in a rare and select artefact.