Nature is often the muse of poets and Gillian Prew is no exception, but no paean to the daffodil here. Prew explores and embraces the experience of grief through the natural world in all its cruel beauty. She eschews romanticism for a language that is in turns viscerally dark red blood, bones, fire, black earth then tender, casting light on ‘the soft skitter of small things… bursting green’, the three colours creating a narrative of loss amid life. Precise, anatomical and unflinching, this is a journey through the cyclical nature of our existence, the eternal making and unmaking of the world. From the violent ‘fistbuds’ of renewal in spring to the ‘boneclean’ air of winter, Prew reminds us, in all seasons, life is no gentle thing.