Haunted by a phrase of Keston Sutherland’s, ‘The pressure to think and sing’, Peter Philpott’s lyrics on his granddaughter Ianthe read like the meditations of a slightly deranged but liberated Wordsworth, who has escaped onto the streets of the twenty-first century, not quite sure whether he is the grandfather or the grandchild. Full of grace and wonder, and a grasp of complex forms which have been chewed carefully before being spat out again, this is poetry of the highest order, proving without question that there are no ideas but in sings. -Philip Terry