Reminiscent of early Walcott, Philp's poems wander through bedrooms and along the waterfronts of that perceptive land accessible only to poets, only to those who can pull the day through dawn fog to the delicate 'breath of extinguished candles'. He effortlessly enlarges the simple to the universal and leads us guilelessly along, rewarding readers with meaning layered by fresh imagery.
Of crossfire, bodies piled like crates of Coke.
His blade, muscles bulging under his shirt.