The Vinyl fossil Record

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

away.

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

folk whisperers.

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

 

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