I’ve been reading Sinéad Morrissey’s collection, The State of the Prisons (Carcanet, 2005).
There are a few humdrum poems in it, but most are of a high standard, some a bit special. The couplet that begins her poem Forty Lengths shows that even with something as mudane as a swimming pool, there are still ways of "making it new":
Before goggles, the pool was a catch of beleaguered heads
being raced against each other by omnipotence.
