I wish I could give this present of Time,
I know it’s just what you wanted.

But no shop stocks it,
no merchant offers it.
 
The poems are carefully ordered to take the reader through the mourning process, from the opening poem ‘Each Tear’, starkly beautiful in its simplicity, to the final poem ‘When Happiness returns after a long absence’, separated from the others as a Coda. I find this poem moving, beautiful and true. The imagery for happiness grows from an ant to a spider, with the hope of it turning into a wren, smallest of birds, at some time in the future. The last stanza is brave and witty:
                             
I don’t ask for an outbreak of joy so major
the police are called to quell it,    
just your wren-song
drawing each no-longer-endless day to a close,
chanteuse of last light,
such modest happiness I think I can bear.

 
What works so well here is that the last stanza is a hoped-for destination, and by describing the opposite of present reality, Shuttle gives the reader a hopeful ending whilst keeping between the lines how very far from that modest happiness she is at present, how the days are in fact seemingly endless, the sorrow unremitting. Shuttle writes without a trace of self-pity or sentimentality. The honesty is searing, but dignified.
All the poems in this collection are perfectly crafted, sure-footed and touching. They all deserve detailed comment, but in this limited space I will select a few at random. ‘To a Singing Master’ asks a series of questions to the ghost of the loved one, expressing the feeling that in death, we are made helpless and strangers carry out necessary tasks instead, which perhaps in history would have been part of the letting go:
                             
But who shaved, washed
and dressed you for the pyre?

Did they handle you gently,
or treat you like a piece of meat?

‘The Keening’ remembers in detail Redgrove’s body. This longing for the physicality of the dead person is so sharp and clear with heart-aching imagery: ‘the vineyard of you’, ‘the fallen mast of your spine’. Not every poem is so naked in its grief. Shuttle is not guilty of deifying her husband. ‘I Think It Will Happen Like This’ she teases him and brings out his faults in a loving way, for example she imagines he would cook a meal for her but with a less pleasant side effect:

every pan and dish we own
     stacked, unwashed, in a bowl
         of greasy lukewarm water.

The simple truth of this delights the reader, for there is always one spouse who does this in any given pair. Such moments leaven the grief.

Not every poem in this accomplished collection is about Redgrove. There is also a loving sequence in memory of her father, and a range of other poems including some ekphrastic poetry. I love the poem ‘Bread’ which is about being a poet which includes a sense of what a magical thing this is, how unknown relatives can be conjured up, and yet ultimately how humbling it is. The second stanza has elegant imagery:

I work hard at listening
to what my left hand whispers to my right,
and at folding swans back into ice.
 
Shuttle is well read, evidenced in the wide frame of reference she chooses, but she wears her learning lightly and the poems are always open to readers. These poems are all love poems, but written in different circumstances. They are also poems of coming to terms with loss and making the best of things, as we must. The directness of language, the wit and invention and sheer love of life and people shines through in every word. Sandgrain and Hourglass is a triumph. I cannot recommend it highly enough. If you are in love, grieving or love good poetry, then this is the book for you.