Stephen Symons's new collection is engineered for flight, gliding its way between the heavy and the weightless, memory and forgetting. It is a self-proclaimed 'language of feathers' that makes this flight possible, a spiritual athleticism that brings to mind George Herbert, whose idea was that the 'fall furthers the flight in me.' Symons's skill is in creating a fathomable sphere for the dimensions of war, contextualizing the enormous facts with small detail, whether referencing Amichai's 'diameters of bombs/and sadness of open closets' or exploring the weightless dross of childhood in the beautiful piece 'My son was conscripted.' Symons creates an epicentre of violence by means of an exquisite prose poem sequence that reverberates even to the quietest poems in the book. But the work, as in all of Symons's poetry, keeps thrusting us back into the present with all its perfect natural math as counter to aftermath: a child's laughter; sunlight trickling over mossed stones; a ballet of cormorants. This is a beautiful book by one of South Africa's most tender poets of witness.