My current read. I've just begun the Mercian Hymns section, which before I've only managed to steal snatches of. I suspect much of Hill's deep, Christian sentiment goes over my little pagan head. For me language is the thing, and symbols bright as blood. It is a treat, for once, to discover a powerful poet who is not dead.
Their spades grafted through the variably-resistant soil.
They clove to the hoard, they ransacked epiphanies,
verterbrae of the chimera, armour of wild bees' larvae.
They struck the fire-dragon's faceted skin.
The men were paid to caulk water-pipes. They brewed and
pissed amid splendour; their latrine seethed its estuary
through nettles. They are scattered to your collations,
It is autmn. Chestnut-boughs clash their inflamed leaves.
The garden festers for attention: telluric cultures enriched
with shards, corms, nodules, the sunk solids of gravity.
I have raked up a golden and stinking blaze.