Ewan Whyte’s first volume of poetry, Entrainment, demonstrates masterful craftsmanship and maturity. It contains 28 poems, some of which span a couple of lines (“Graffiti for the Palatine”) while others run for as long as four pages (“Guiraut Riquier: The Last Troubadour”). The collection as a whole is tightly knit, yet without a systematic philosophy. Itʼs poetry for the sake of poetry, or so it seems at first glance. Though well planned and meticulously chiselled, it rolls along like a train to nowhere.