His music. Lakeland fells. Inseperable, for me.
Overwhelming both, as sunlight emerging from banked clouds.
Transported. Once engaged always awed by the scale of rockface or score.
To listen is to fly and soar like a bird.
Spinning upwards. Turning over.
Pure daydreams. As intense as scaling a peak. Looking down at the world
below. Glancing heavenwards, and drinking in a slow climb to the
climax. Walking above cloud level.
Senses battered by wind and fresh vapour.
Thunderous strings, antiphonal echoes
Raise hairs and heartbeat.
All and every instrument raw and real, just as
A whole mountain alive, from Wren to Herdwick.
Distance plays tricks on the eyes.
Aloft, whole herds of cattle reduced to flecks on a leaf.
Lost in the immensity of land.
Pure beauty. Pure air. Pure sound.
© Tom Tide 2016