'Listening to Glenn Gould on Orton Scar' by Kathleen Jones
From Ravenstonedale driving north on unfenced roads, moonlight reflects the tarmac�s frozen wake across the moor � a snail's trail in my rear-view mirror. Bach unwinds from the c.d. a landscape of variations into this zero night. The grass is white; trees black. The walls run off like staves. The moon fingers each stone separately, in unexpected harmonies and structures, endlessly