Kenneth Steven, a bestselling poet, writes with a quiet, gentle spirituality. Images of secret places from the west coast, from its Celtic legacy, and from the lives of the people still there today, are all powerfully evoked in this new collection.

September The fields lay white beneath a snow of sun And birds were restless underneath, they rose and wheeled Like silver leaves. The skies were more than blue; Burnished and beaten with a strange brilliance. The angels are coming, I thought; The angels will come in the night When a huge moon ovals through these bright and cloudless skies; They will come to bind the sheaves While we are fast asleep. They will work the fields, their wings tight-folded, All through the white night of this September, The moon gliding high like a balloon Over the glazed harvest of the world; Nothing moving except the angels and the wind, until the task is done In the warm stillness of the dawn. © Kenneth Steven