Cathartic

A beautiful print of many, many birds in flight hangs by my bedside. It is a perfect circle of airborne seabirds. A maelstrom of wings that swoop and soar. Countless, delicately drawn souls. The canvas is crowded and difficult to take in all at once, and yet it brings me a deep sense of calm. … More Cathartic

Blue Dawn

The birds do it right, singing in each new day. Happy, regardless of what is planned (or unplanned). I am listening now, warm in my bed. Sleepy. There’s no contest between them: There are spaces and cues between each bar. Rippling together in a murmuration of sound. Setting themselves up for the day.   © … More Blue Dawn

Bog Wood

A seed. Long dormant. Lovingly laquered, cradled womb-like by gentle turf. For many generations. By some fair chance comes an unearthing: A keen eye fashions wings from time-frozen knots. Carves a thrusting neck and beak. Unleashes a Phoenix, now poised mid-arc, Or bursting from beneath the fish- harbouring waves. From this crucible centuries long, Soars … More Bog Wood

Joyful Hue

Feathered wings against the grain, Inky blue flies home again; Ashen-black hoods swoop to nest, Superstitions put to rest.   Copyright Tom Tide 2017  

Two For Joy

  Winged wood, feathered grain Pivoting with weathervane Knotted, layered, honey-hues- Brush-stroked paint softly imbues.   Copyright Tom Tide 2017    

Magpiedoscope

One for Cobalt, Two-Sea Green; Three for Copper, Four for Cream. Five? Cerulean. Six for Jet- Seven for all, flashing bright at Sunset.   Copyright Tom Tide 2017

Divine

What a wondrous thing To wander through a garden. Deftly led by its creator. To watch those loving hands caress floral finery. See a place through another’s eyes. Bathe in coaxed colours and textures, Swaying branches bedecked by leaves, as if coral Deep within a reef. Finding pleasure in every twisting turn of treble clef … More Divine

All I ask

All I ask, Today: For myself, more and more, Is less and less. Nothing, save The chance to rest In the here and now Entirely. To feel grass upon my back, and Gaze at whirling birds carving the sky, With my face in the sun. Only this. To be calm, and drink in the now. … More All I ask

Thane Of Strife

I should be burned, dead and buried. God knows, I could have helped them burn. Soap does burn, does it not? I am made of ash and oil. Twas my place to soothe, though. To aid. To cleanse. My current station? To laquer a haunted Thane with fresh layers of guilt, year by year. They … More Thane Of Strife