TOM HIRONS

Writer and storyteller

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 Hirons
All rights reserved.

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