We have heard of it before, we will be hearing of it again. Brobdingnagians at one end, Lilliputians at the other. Strange sabbaths of the dead, la Sorley MacLean's 'Hallaig Wood', at which whole generations are glimpsed as in a mist, only to vanish again forever. But of all that, more in due course.
Broader questions force themselves in beforehand.
Good great and indifferent poems are here, many having migrated through successive ideologies or anthologies, and lived to tell their own tale. No, it is not the content that is wanting, it is any sense of definition. Had the editors used that as an epigraph, things mightn't have gotten so out of hand. The second, a kind of modified Bloodaxe New Poetry, takes the story through from those born in the Forties. And there is, finally, a brief flutter on the horses of a Nineties Generation.