Sometimes a Wild God

This glorious poem by Tom Hirons is for all of you who have danced and dreamed with the Wild God and are bereft of moorland expanse, forest shade, and wind bitten mountain crags right now. In the Brythonic tradition we might call him Myrddin Wyllt ~ wild Merlin. It took time to culture him and clothe him in fine court robes and manners befitting King Arthur’s magical advisor. More about Merlin in a later blog.

Prehistoric Deer Antler Mask from Skara Brae

May this act as a reminder that the wildness is in you, the fox is in your eyes and your blood is laced with green sap that rises with the spring tides.


Sometimes a Wild God


Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.

He is awkward and does not know the ways

Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.

His voice makes vinegar from wine.


When the wild god arrives at the door,

You will probably fear him.

He reminds you of something dark

That you might have dreamt,

Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.


He will not ring the doorbell;

Instead he scrapes with his fingers

Leaving blood on the paintwork,

Though primroses grow

In circles round his feet.


You do not want to let him in.

You are very busy.

It is late, or early, and besides…

You cannot look at him straight

Because he makes you want to cry.


The dog barks.

The wild god smiles,

Holds out his hand.

The dog licks his wounds

And leads him inside.


The wild god stands in your kitchen.

Ivy is taking over your sideboard;

Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades

And wrens have begun to sing

An old song in the mouth of your kettle.


‘I haven’t much,’ you say

And give him the worst of your food.

He sits at the table, bleeding.

He coughs up foxes.

There are otters in his eyes.


When your wife calls down,

You close the door and

Tell her it’s fine.

You will not let her see

The strange guest at your table.


The wild god asks for whiskey

And you pour a glass for him,

Then a glass for yourself.