Emma Purshouse’s third full collection of poetry is a tribute to the distinctive places and voices of the Black Country of the West Midlands. It opens with a series of personal, sideways perspectives on specific landmarks and events, such as Little Nell’s fictional grave at nearby Tong or a 1922 tragedy in an explosives factory that killed nineteen girls and young women. These poems are wry, often deadly serious.

My compass – its needle set with a sliver of blue stone – spins and spins. Breath mists my snow
goggles. I wipe them endlessly. Even in these thick seal-skin mitts my hands are frozen. I have been
no place as still as this.

seek justice
and you hold
a seashell to your ear

hear

He cuts. I lie still, teach myself
to dream of St David’s Bay,
seaweed strewn on incoming tides,
surfers slice big waves in half.

I pull a dress over my head
calm foggy blue linen
sleeved in lavender,
press frizzed hair