At 192 pages this book contains more or less enough poems to be these days accounted the lifetime’s work of a poet. Those here, retrieved after R S Thomas’s death from the airless columns of long-dead magazines, are not quite the harvest of the wastepaper basket, but not one of them has been published in book form until now, the poet’s posthumous 100th birthday. They are just some of the poems he did not quite get round to throwing away.
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With just a few days to go until the first issue of the new decade, does anyone recognise the stern figure on our February cover?
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