Simon Armitage’s work is earthed – no matter what he is writing about, his poetry is never shallow-rooted. Nothing he writes is pretentious, footling or airy-fairy. Part of this stems from his reassuring Yorkshire tone – it is calming, it holds things together, it promises a degree of common sense. But in his 11th collection, however safe the hands, the subject matter is anything but reassuring. Many poems describe an endangered world. The collection opens with Last Snowman, in which a mournful grotesque floats “down an Arctic seaway” complete with red scarf, clay pipe and “a carrot for a nose/(some reported parsnip)”.
The possible parsnip momentarily amuses, but the jokes are precarious and this is partly what makes the poem powerful – its comedy thaws. The next line describes the alarming droop of the melting snowman’s mouth: “pure stroke victim”. The snowman floats on, symbol of a world we are losing, “past islands vigorous / with sunflower and bog myrtle, /singular and abominable”. A witty word upon which to end but an excuse for only the briefest smile.
Related: Simon Armitage: ‘Language is my enemy – I spend my life battling with it’
Even in a bed, where ordinary comfort might be hoped for, we seem to be in a room with a doomed view
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