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"This is a tragicomedy of a collection, a subtle, understated blend of the light and the dark, of laugh-out-loud humour and touches of lump in the throat. I love the quirkiness of these poems, their wry look at the left-over fragments of language and life, the poignancy of the midden, the bitter-sweet moments left in an emptying house." -- Mandy Pannett
"Here Is a poet who worries at his world, and his past, like an archaeologist with a bone. He explicitly interrogates his own lexicon in order to unearth words and create Innovative poems on love, grief and loss, articulated with rare wit and passion. He suqqests that aliens, treading Earth's grass in 'In Praise of Chlorophyll' might say, ‘We like the feel. / We can work with this. / Best not spoil it.’ " — Paul Hyland
"Here Is a poet who worries at his world, and his past, like an archaeologist with a bone. He explicitly interrogates his own lexicon in order to unearth words and create Innovative poems on love, grief and loss, articulated with rare wit and passion. He suqqests that aliens, treading Earth's grass in 'In Praise of Chlorophyll' might say, ‘We like the feel. / We can work with this. / Best not spoil it.’ " — Paul Hyland
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