Here is a book of ghosts, from the mysterious traveller in the title poem who, mistaken for another man, starts to crave his new alter ego: I have seen leaves migrate to parallel lives – blown through an underpass from the eastern side of a motorway to the west. Perhaps I should have answered ‘Yes’.' to the first person of ‘Between Two Bridges’, Henry's long poem on Newport, who follows his teenage ghost across the city for a night: He pulls away. The wind puts its lips to an arcade. A seagull on a barber's pole waits to open its blades. How the living haunt themselves is the concern of Ingrid’s Husband, and the author discovers his spirits through an imagery of absences – a child’s signature in the dust of an old guitar; the stone plinth where a café once stood; a white balloon, drifting down a shopping arcade; a chateau, still furnished with the belongings of its vanished owner … Love continues to underscore the commonplace in Paul Henry's fifth collection – How many years did I waste / listening out for your voice? ('The Waiting Room') and this lyric poet's distinctive voice will continue to haunt its readers.
