Brutalism

I love Brutalist Architecture. I love it. I love the size and the shape and the colours (or lack of colours) of it. I feel strongly about it. To me, it is anything but brutal. It is sublime and sculptural, and makes me feel immediately fascinated yet humbled whenever I see it. As an appreciator…

Stanton Drew

Stones stand veined with red: Rooted deep in hallowed ground; Long may they remain.   © Tom Tide 2016    

Cotswold Glow

Whoever describes the Cotswolds as ‘twee’ or ‘chocolate box pretty’ is doing this wonderful place a huge disservice. I spent two days there this week, and it is a deeply powerful and rugged part of Britain. Beautiful, yes. Atavistic certainly. Though it is so much more than that. The very stones of the place glow…

Over and Over Again

Folks in Bath must have looked upwards in days gone by. Look up today, in 2016, and you will see faded, flaking murals. Murals over murals. Adverts skillfully painted by hand on to the corners of buildings. Flowing fonts and delicate pigments. So precise, and yet in their decay somehow reminiscent of Titian. Crumbling frescoes….

Clockwork City on National Poetry Day!

The whole complex, road-veined, hill-strewn window-lined network like a coiled watch spring tight with excitement. Lights click on and off in binary code: asleep or awake. Shadowed silhouettes glide behind blinds and curtains, travelling the grooves the cogs the movements of their lives. Teeming activity. At night, an alarming illumination. As the city ticks down….

Improvising

To become a snail, when human, is quite a thing. To make one’s home mobile, and transport it to a new place, is yet another. To convey one’s family in the same frail shell is yet another permutation. One which I undertook in August, along with my wife and Four Year Old son. We went…

It just looked so content…

Everybody has a flair for describing something. That  something could be anything. One of my friends is adept at describing classic cars, to the point that  can almost see them. Another can invoke memories of kisses that are so vivid they make me blush. The queen of description however, without doubt, is my Sister Hannah….

Mosaic

The whole world washes up here. Everything, from the Romans up. Heaven only knows who came before. Drifting in with the tide, or spinning downriver. Mingling, stirring the melting pot. Beachcomb: hold a palatte within your palm Crafted from earth, spun briefly then returned. To drift, lovingly enrobed by shifting sands.   © Tom Tide…

The Shippen a storm

An Ark. Firmly run aground in a safe harbour. Once a refuge for animals, milked two by two. Now a home, lovingly crafted. Formidably hulled: all Shipshape and Bristol fashion. A beam-boned whale, with portholes Peering out at rolling landscapes. All wood a creaking, flexing, holding fast. Scything the wind. Enduring rains. Prow raised up to…

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…

The best view

The best views are veiled. Revealed through winding pathways; Reflecting splendour.   © Tom Tide 2016      

En Bretagne-Dinan

Perhaps it was the light that made it so particularly special. Bright, white sunshine reflected off lead flashing and mottled slate tiles. Light made all the brighter for the contrast of grey cobbles and dark, dark timbers. Light that threw long sharp shadows, as slim and defined as the church steeple with its plaintive bells….