If I have had a past life, I feel I may have been a Selkie. Folklore tells of this mythological race of seal-people that could shed their skin and walk on land. They had to leave their seal pelts on the beach before growing legs, but if they failed to return then they would remain…


When all else, all, looks dim, You are there, drawing me on. My fixed point. My home. You.   © Tom Tide 2017  

Violet morning

Fog flows heavy through trees. Birds sound thoughtful, filling in their world, As the fog tide rises. © Tom Tide 2017

In Record Time

There’s this geographer I know. He’s an expert at knowing where to look. Keeps his finds carefully. Here, splitting rocks. There, flipping stacks,  of Vinyl. In each case, peeling back the layers to find treasures. Digging. Searching for a timeline. A spiral line. Preferably pristine and without scratches.   Searches are timeless. 33 minutes spiral…


Post Office. What does that actually mean? Post-Office? After a job? A time to unwind? Perhaps. Or is it merely a parting of ways? The ink has dried. Anointed stamps are pressed home. At Christmas, with one passing on, a journey begins. Counter-culture deposits messages in to sacks. Delivery parts like cells dividing. All missives…

Boat Bottom Canvas

Every time I look, my hungry eyes see more. A line of Galloping surf at dusk or dawn. Spray-flecked lighthouse, defiant in brilliant white. Darting seabirds thumping down to chase silver glimmerings- or scudding clouds swirling far out to see. In need of a lick of paint? No. Anything but. Here there is the intensity…

Thank You for my letters

My mother has always told me that when I first went to Primary School, I wrote upside down and back to front. I was also Left-handed. Perhaps in my mind I was living on another planet, with an unusual orbit and topsy-turvy gravity. Maybe in my present state of mind I still do. Needless to…

Aber in a Storm

It was always a front row seat. House like a wedding cake with columns, next door to a derelict mansion. Waves like White Tigers leaping- Their spittle-flung pebbles to dash salt-flecked panes. Always the thump of surf on stone, then a scatter of spray. So very different from Summer basking on paint-peeled window sills, Watching…

Born to slide

What double happiness as a parent in the snow! Pulling a bundle of joy behind, White slopes ahead, The air ringing with giggles. Watching the light reflected in young eyes that marvel at the world transformed. Sound muffled. Hands painfully alive. Hopes and prayers flung with wild abandon for a snow day and school closures….


Gleaming at the waterfall’s heart: Shocking cold, painful to the touch, Soon warmed, in my palm.   Copyright Tom Tide 2017