TOM HIRONS

Writer and storyteller

Tom storytelling at Slavic Tales of Wonder and Dread, Exeter, 2016

Black Mountain River

Autumn begins.
It doesn’t take much;
One tug at my feet by
Autumn’s grey strangers
And I’m away
Or rather, perhaps,
Returning.

As if a stream
Has appeared in front of me
Towards that great
Black Mountain
Of Winter,
Autumn sings me home.

There I am.
In the womb of Black Mountain,
I’m waiting
As patient as a
Heron or the
Hawthorn on the moor.

Spring’s grey sister
Has come for me.
What began with a crocus
Ends with the broken bough,
The leaning-in towards
Hearth-fire,
The quiet soul-song
Of the mist on the
Black mountainside.

I step into the water,
Leaving Summer’s gold and laughter,
Like a man baptised
Into a luminous darkness.

The silver mist closes behind me;
The grey strangers accompany me;
The moon puts pennies on my eyes.

The tragedy of life is not its sadness,
But forgetting the way back home
Along Black Mountain River.

Tom's work available from Hedgespoken Press