Eleven years ago this month, the fire in the Redcar blast furnace went out. The town didn't go with it. That gap, between what a place loses and what it keeps, is one of the hardest things a poet can try to write. Lean one way and you get nostalgia: rusting gantries in soft golden light, and everything better back then. Lean the other and you get the holiday brochure, where all is well now because there is ice cream. Neither is fair to the people who live there. Below you wil