Pressed in to layers they lie dormant. Waiting.
They are a fossil record.
I prise them gently apart like beach shale, and read the imprints within.
A feathered brushing unveils the form, sweeping all grains and backfill
Species become genres, and ages bleed in to spectrums of album art.
There is the Dark side of the Moon, onyx black and shot through like a
geode. Rodriguez, visage flecked in amber, and Santana, adorned with
psychedelic ammonite swirls.
Striations of rock legends stand erect, intimidating the porous grace of
An odd glacial erratic, Namely ABBA. Indeed many read like museum
codes: UB40, U2, 10CC, ELO.
Schisms make odd bedfellows. Joan Baez rubs shoulders with Bon Jovi, their lips meeting as serendipity has it.
My eyes pore over records of sounds that once were mountains and now
are seabeds. Fingers gently rest, and my minds eye considers the slow
sea-change that ripple s through the spiralling congregation of sound.
© Tom Tide 2016