Danae

A God climbed your Bronze tower In the Silvery night, Transformed  himself to Gold torrents In the gushing of his desire. And now, all gaze in awe at you. With your Creased brow and curled fingers, in the grip of Your most private moment. Exposed. No death-like slumberer you, Writhing in to your own petite … More Danae

Reframed

Three months ago I wrote about a ruined cottage. It is now being restored.   A landscape reframed. Framing industry. Industrial landscaping, Landscaped Still. Still beautiful? Beautiful restoration Restoring a home. To the eye of the beholder-   © Tom Tide 2016  

Under the Counter

Despite the sharp chill blowing from the mountains, the boy was sweating. He’d been watching the door of the Skyland restaurant for over an hour now, and looked on in dismay as it got busier and busier. He checked the barrel of his Grandfather’s Webley revolver one last time, then stowed it behind him, tucking … More Under the Counter

Burning impression

To say visiting India is an assault on the senses is akin to saying that rubbing your eyes after chopping chillies is slightly uncomfortable. I spent six weeks in India, and every one of my senses was constantly battered. There was not one millisecond of silence between stepping of one aeroplane in Delhi  and leaving … More Burning impression

Last Chance Saloon

What would you watch, if time was of the essence? If you could enjoy and appreciate one film, and one film only.  Choose one cinematic experience to relive.  If you were given 60 seconds to choose one last film? Could you take your pick?  I could, hands down. It would be Local Hero. The 1983 … More Last Chance Saloon

Magic Fuels

I will have a lifelong love affair with the writing of Laurie Lee. His descriptions are both poignant and seductive, and bound by a sensuality which is both beautiful and unsettling. Reading him is at once blissfully comforting and yet harrowing, as real life is.  I am also deeply enamoured by a poem of Derek … More Magic Fuels

Fleeting

We move too fast. Miss even our own actions. Every movement, and all the traces left. As we thunder through. Mostly oblivious.   © Tom Tide 2016