Writer and storyteller

bear 200


Sometimes a Wild God

The background

This poem may well be the reason you're on my site. If you'd like to skip straight to the poem, click here.

I wrote it a few years ago now, after the first few lines had been going around my head for months. I thought they were someone else's lines - I kept looking for who'd written the poem and it seems that it didn't yet exist, so I thought I should finish the poem, see what happened after those lines.

The poem is now available as a book or as a poster from Hedgespoken Press, with beautiful black-and-white ink illustrations by my partner, Rima Staines.

You can also hear me reading it in the audiobook of the poem, of which the following is a lower-quality version:

The Lapwing Stars

This piece was written in 2017 and appeared in Fiddler’s Green Peculiar Parish Magazine #4, Crown and Crossroads. It is now the first piece that you can find in Falconer's Joy, out from Hedgespoken Press in September 2018.


The Lapwing Stars

The lapwings have it, no doubt;
Seen across the field, their green-black
Backs are the measure of mystery
For every colour as yet unseen by the boy.

The thin seam of coal by the brook,
Beneath a humpbacked bridge
Of brick and moss over a slow lap
Of water: that has it;
He mines in tan clay with a spoon,
Slick with rain, as sure of riches
As an oil-baron or a king.
The coal has it, but it is not black.

The pheasant in the spinney has it;
Half-glimpsed, gold as a fairytale thread.
As the boy steps between the trees,
Time peels away like leaves of bark,
Century by century by century.

A fossil in the Suffolk flint has it.
The old figure in the bright field is it.
Cadair Idris magnifies it.
Forebears in calves’ hides, they have it;
Their waterfall vigils make it afresh.
Finger-touch, breath-join, skin-meet,
That remembering kindles it.
A fire made of flesh and lightning.

The boy watches wheat-stubble burn;
A hawk chases a blackbird through the hedge;
The ground cracks open, endlessly.
Memory is this thing’s echo,
The tip of its tail, the print of its
Fleet-foot, the fur in the bramble,
The musk of it on a gatepost in winter.

I know it through the bright star-belt,
Seen clearly in the night of my fast.
I am a vagabond, drifting from it
Like a rudderless boat, numbed,
Thick, graceless as a tripped foot.
But, in that moment of remembering:
Lapwing, coal, pheasant, fire;
Fossil, mountain, waterfall, wife...

I know its place in heaven.

I shake my head. Time colludes with the stars.
The centuries emerge and the lapwing calls:
Pee-wit! Pee-wit! Pee-wit!
I sight it through the gathering dark,
Push at the water with my idiot hands
And steer my clumsy craft towards it.



© Tom Hirons
All rights reserved.


The first draft of this piece was written in 2012 - it seems like distant times. The version here is the one that you can find in Falconer's Joy.


In the granite bed where I sleep,
There lies a bear whose breath is the rise
And fall of stars between these rough rows
Of stones.

The bear’s mouth is the October sky,
As hungry as a cave in the mountains,
As black as the water in a dream
In which you fell and died, then lived
To tell the tale, remade from your remains.

I place the only copy of my dog-eared life
Into the broken kist of the Great Bear’s mouth
And it leans out of the heaving night to
Eat the boy and man I’ve been,
Sleeps again with my dreams churning,
Hollow and restless in its ever-pregnant,
Ever-aching belly of the night.

Hail, Merrivale, my bed of stone and stars.
Here, I’ll rest my memories and no other
Story will have the fast hold of me now.

Speak to me in the language of Moss and Stone:
The brook and fox-den know well my
Mother-tongue. Let us be clear:

This Moor-language sings sweeter in my ear
Than all the songs I ever heard from angels,
Clear and beautiful as they were.
I tell you no lie, not here. I could not,
For all my skill in falsity.

This peat-brown water,
These rain-stacked stones;
Oaks both mighty and small.
That stream-crouched May
Beneath which I sleep so deeply
And forget and remember my most
Noble and ignoble truths.

Here are granite avenues; here is the sky above Earth;
The stone-wrought lines in which the ages live,
Not forgotten, by me, tonight at least. Not quite.

This Bear has been stalking my life.
Sweet as a knife, warm as night,
Kind as a wounding and deadly as the hour
In which I dream my last great dream.
I bare my neck to the blades of
Remembering and forgetting.

Once or twice, when my spine was made of birch,
When the fire in my head was a fire in my belly,
I fell up into the sky of trees and there
Among the green leaves of oak and ash,
I found the runes and learned true speech.

Because of this good fortune, I know my rightful name,
Though the fortune was not easily won and the road
Towards my name is a path of hunger and sorrow.

But see, now, am I a bird or a song
Or a stone-bound dreamer?
Truly, I am a swallow in flight;
I am a dour man of England;
I am the river-stalker,
And I am both the blacksmith
And his chains.

I cannot read the Galaxy,
But I know the language of tree,
Leaf and the cross-branched sky.
I know the speech of secrets;
I know the stone-lined path and
I have taken the long way home.

My brow-star is only just beginning to rise.
Attend to the voice in which I spoke truly:

Show me who you are when
The Great Bear has eaten
All your words.

This, then, is the calling I ignored,
The enemy with whom I would not engage.

This is the place I remembered,
But to which I would not return.
Prodigal and penitent, I pray truly:
Hold me tight and close enough
That memory returns and stays
Right in my remembering.

My seven sisters wait, wiser
Than my brothers in star-Lore,
But not that of stream or tree
Or of the grey stones, now as
Fixed in my geography as a coast
Or a birthplace or a grave.

I was at the battle where the great shout was made;
I advised the army in that significant moment:
Help me recollect precisely
The weapons we employed then and
The banners to which we rallied.

How did we find hope enough
To take to the field
Though our enemies were myriad
And impervious to all our arms?
How did we face the dark
And our certain death and yet,
Somehow, prevail?

Hail, Merrivale, where I fought and
Fell that day and lived again.
Time, tide nor all the flooding sea
Will keep me from you now.

Young as I was in those giddy days,
I believed the fable of unending flight,
Fleet-footed, bright-winged,
Agile as a sprite or a swift,
Weightlessly becoming God.

I wrought havoc in the shadow
Of my hawk-shaped flight,
Became not light, but a bearer
Of insubstantial promises and the folly
Of those who lose the Earth
And forget the shape of their own
Feet in the darkness.

In lesser days than the great hours,
I writhed in the ties of this life,
As stubborn as a fly or a bolt stuck fast,
As graceless as a faltering foot.

When gravity claimed me,
I made a slower, sadder story:
An agent of the light-flecked,
Dark-cracked jackdaw.
A dappled servant of complexity,
One foot in the bright-shining heaven,
One foot in the King’s stone of Dùn Ad,
No longer golden, but dark as
Silver in the ashes of the forge.

The Bear made a feast of all those I wronged,
All those I loved and all who stood by.
Each one in their time has trodden
That pathway of stone and stars.

Was I closer to God and love through
My mistakes or through my triumphs?
Who’s to say? Not I, and the Bear
Is silent and no one else can know.

A hawk cries out in the dark hour,
Hungry and homeless as a saint.
The water in the thin leat sings
Its song of endless, hopeless hope.

The Bear splays its crooked claws and
Reaches out into the dense-tongued darkness
To deliver all our victories against deception.

It was a dark day, that Easter
And our child, unborn, our first.

We sat in your shadow,
Adrift in our distress.
We climbed King’s Tor,
Knew the world was good,
Though we could not feel it.
Aged with grief,
Cut out of innocence,
We were bereft.
I don’t know another place
That could have held us.

Hail, Merrivale.
This time, I will not forget.

Three horses,
A skewbald foal as fresh as dawn.
A score or so of sheep
Bleating in the hill-dew.
A wagtail on a finger of rock.
An immense Bear, asleep,
Stretching its arms in the stars.
The high moor is calling;
They have uncovered the queen
With the knotted hair,
And the king is sleeping
In the black-bird’s eye.
Now is not the time for silence.

The chill wind cuts.
The hard ground bites;
The mist becomes rain and I,
A mortal man with
Aching legs and heavy arms,
Awaken to the thin daybreak light.

I will learn to speak with the bear’s tongue;
I will tell my story from the stone-mouth of the kistvaen;
I will learn again to walk the long way home.

I rise and step towards my life,
Daring in this damp dawn to trust
That not all things worth loving are lost.
Another star is rising on the pale horizon
And the moon has yet to sing.

Hail, Merrivale;
I remember;
I believe;
I begin.


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,

The Worship of Place

The first draft of this piece was recorded in the early summer of 2018. I had recently started carrying a small dictaphone around with me, finally admitting to myself that carrying a notebook out walking with me was just a drag. Recording words and thoughts and images, speaking them rather than writing them down: it seems altogether more sympathetic than putting my head down and scribbling. I have all manner of thoughts about the difference between silence and the blank page. I'll save them for a blog-post.

This is one of the first pieces that was written this way. I still write with pen and paper, and sitting at the computer, too, but I'm interested in what happens when I use my voice instead of my hand. Let me know what you think.

You can find The Worship of Place in the recently-published Falconer's Joy from Hedgespoken Press.

The Worship of Place

There is a temple I know whose roof is made of sky.
On its ceiling are painted clouds and stars
And the rooms and corridors are made of leaves and branches;
Its doors are open to all people, day and night.
Anyone may enter, whether or not they listen
To the wise words spoken within.

I know a synagogue through which a river flows
Against boulders inscribed with scriptures of moss,
Where salmon leap in exaltation and wild doves sing.
The rabbi has a beard of green-grey lichen and
His prayers are carried on the gurgling silver stream.

I know a mosque in which every direction is sacred.
Within that holy place, I see the face of the beloved
Beneath every stone and in the heart of every flower.
Fallen oak leaves are the flurries of the faithful, dancing;
The call to prayer is sung upon the whirling, wild wind.

The priestess of this shrine bars entry to no one;
She greets me in silence and in silence I depart.
Everyone is welcomed in for worship;
The congregation of all creatures give praise
And offerings to the hallowed sanctuary;
The object of their veneration is the world itself.

When I arrive in this boundless cathedral,
With my eyes unclouded by guile or cunning,
I know the presence of such exquisite beauty
And a joy so intense it’s almost unbearable.

I fall over myself trying to find the best way to worship;
I press my back against the trunk of a broad tree
Or a tower of cracked, stacked stones;
I tell my confession to the twisted heather,
And bow down before the yellow-flowered gorse;
I renew my vows in the presence of the damsel fly
And receive the blessing of the magpie and the wren.  
All the while, skylarks carry my prayers to heaven.

At the altar of this great temple,
There is a fountain, invisible to my eyes.
If my worship is whole-hearted, I am washed
Clean of sorrow and all my restless thirst
Is quenched.

Standing in this sublime sanctuary,
I am cracked in two and an old well
Bubbles in my heart once again.
The water is so clear and delicious,
I cannot keep it to myself.

Will you come with me to that fountain now
And fill your cup of longing from this endless, untamed spring?


The Dead Fathers

This was the last of the poems to be written for Falconer's Joy from Hedgespoken Press. The whole collection is dedicated to my father, Mike Hirons (1944-1987)

Today - 31st October 2018 - is the first time this poem has been seen outside the pages of the book. It seems fitting. Happy Samhuinn to you all.



The Dead Fathers

I will lie down with the bones of my dead fathers,
Hold tight the portion of wisdom they passed to me
And sleep the vital sleep in the black-watered river.

Their bones will make a ship so that I do not drown,
For all that it is hard to tell in the world of the dead.
I will hold fast to the memory of life and endure

All the certainty that I have become one of
The dead men. A tiny star guides me to land,
So faint sometimes I cannot make it out,

So walk towards where I last remembered
The light of it falling, repeating its shape in my eyes
In case I begin to believe I never saw it shine.

My dead fathers will begin to speak verses
In languages I once knew, but in which
I no longer have currency or grace.

Instead, I will hand over my fragile coins,
Make apology for my misdemeanours, all my
Terrible forgetting, every time I wandered

From the bone-road they built for me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I’ll say. ‘For all of the failings,
But most of all for not falling far enough

Into your bone-garden to listen to the songs
Your dead tongues sing. I was too quick
To believe what the living told me

And the star of the underworld
Was outshone by the daytime Sun.
My fathers, forgive me.’

The dead fathers will look with their hollow eyes
Full of crying and I’ll bottle those tears to make
Salt for the meals at the long table at which
I serve my loved ones my life.




My heart is a cracked cup.
I fill it, and then it is empty.
I forget everything of worth.
Then remember and forget,
And remember again, and forget.


One day, when idiocy’s mystique
Has rubbed off like lacquer from precious oak,
I’ll forget so utterly or remember so well
That I will forget to not dance,
And I’ll remember my way to that home
Beyond all memory and its loss –
The place where you are waiting
With your hands of milk and stars.


I’m too fascinated still
By the varieties of foolishness
To come home just yet from this carnival
Of perplexing wonder, light and dark.
But, I know the sun is shining there
And the air is sweet as only
Coming home can be.


One day, I’ll walk up the white-stoned path
To that familiar door in the woodland
On the island at the edge of the world.
But, I will not be there to arrive.
Only my dancing, my memory, my echo:
The footsteps of fire on water,
The everlasting bird that flies
Through the blessed Earth.

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