There is a relentlessness to all this that he does not feel when driving across his country, the low, flat land of the Central West, the very air here hanging around him, so much water coursing and he submerged. Where were the small balls of pure white clouds dotting the impressionist sky of such fierce deepness the clouds seem little castles holding the last line before the ground, hundreds of them stretching out, casting dappled shadows over the thirsty earth? The earth, what shows behind the vagrant tufts of grass, an impure dark, as if made up of the detritus of the clouds, the defects they have shed. Occasionally towns roll by but more often it is electricity lines that mark the wall, rearing tall above the treeless plain until even the clouds absent themselves and he would be left with nothing between the dark earth and the blue sky but himself.

“Daylight is a bold immersion into grief, loss and disappointment. Abandoning the constraints of realism, experimenting with form and process, it enacts the fragmentation of people’s lives and forces us to experience their dislocations and disappointments. At times it’s an uncomfortable read, sometimes mysterious and elliptical, but always original and lyrical, moving finally into poetry itself.”

— Debra Adelaide

‘‘lyrical but unyielding’’

— Kirkus Reviews