So Peter Reading’s dead. I think… I think there wasn’t a better poet in England. Serious, funny, formally brilliant, lucid, tricksy, unsettling, nasty, compassionate sometimes… usw.
One of the few who looked well at the dirty world of now, properly.
He then worked for 22 years as a weighbridge operator at an animal feedmill in Shropshire, a job which left him free to think, until he was sacked for refusing to wear a uniform introduced by new owners of the business.