1309

Poems from Norway

All at sea

Here we be

And both agree

This G&T

In the Observatory

Is necessary

To set me free

From the purgatory

Of my workaday

Consultancy.

Brian Hick autumn 2013 On a Fred Olsen cruise to Norway

©copyright Sally Hick 16.1024

 1225

I don't want to believe your miracles.

I can't accept you healed the sick and blind

But take no action in our fractured world

To halt the massacres which plague mankind.

I don't want to believe you raised the dead

Or met the prophets in a hail of light

When faith is an excuse for mutilation

And every preacher knows that he is right.

             So why my hesitation, why the instinct

             To pause, before I rush out to condemn

             The simple and misguided who would follow

             Anyone who seeks to flatter them?

             Perhaps I sense your smile behind the haze

             Which seems to complicate my rational ways.

Brian Hick November 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 14.10.24

 1224

Mozzarella tricolor - Bristol fashion

Cherry tomatoes

Tiny cow's mozzarella

& too much rocket.

But the Pollo Milanese is okay.

Brian Hick October 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 10.10.24

1223

Are silkworms peculiarly thick?

They move with impenetrable slowness 

Eat nothing but mulberry leaves

And then get boiled alive.

So that 0.1% can wear their silk.

In the Hayward Gallery one whole room

Is full of rocks and chains

Carefully covered in live cocoons

Close by, trays of silkworms munch

Their way through piles of leaves

Never thinking to aim towards the edge

Jump over and deny us what they spin.

Have we bred them into indolence

Or did we first avail ourselves

Because they were so lazy?

Brian Hick October 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 8.10.24

Larks above the Mist (part 5)

My way runs through a beech wood where the trunks

Stand like the ritual way, leading me

Down naves of skybound columns, canopied

In shimmering gold, entwined with ivy polished

And patterned like the snaking armlets, cast

Cut and burnished for the goddess' praise.

As stars appear and the new moon rises

I set a bothy for the long night's rest

Stacking branches and the lying moss

To keep the wind from chilling me too far,

Warm beneath the wolf-skins and the furs

Of squirrel, ferret, weasel and black mole.

Day break, and the mist which lay unmoved

Has vanished, though the sky above's still grey

And the wind which dropped as the night fell

Cuts keenly as I break my fast, before

I start my last day towards the continuence

Of sacred streams and this long ridgeway path.

The country here is changed, the copses, filled

With fir and ash, darker and denser set

Between the open downs where herds still roam

Or race across the open headed moor.

A flurry of finches bobs from hedge to hedge

Keeping a gentle distance from my face.

Unseen above, thee larks seem to mock

A kite hovering, hungered after days

Of mist which kept him from his prey

Lurking, preening in the autumnal fields.

Two thousand starlings flow silent across

Then lift to murmur in the evening light.

A wood so full of rooks, the trees could be

Alive, but one by one they rise and circle

Silently until the sky is darkened

By their flight, and all the noise is stilled, 

As they cloak the evening with their wings.

The pathway drops toward the valley floor

Where the river weirs and shallow runs

Allow a crossing even at full flood.

Epona, life of every stream

Pike & perch, trout and bream,

Sanctify our watery ways.

Here beside the shrine I break the axe,

Cast it in silence far across the flood

To vanish in the water's broken edge,

As if it had never been, and I

Who cast it, will as quickly disappear

To leave no trace .....

Epona, Goddess of the night

Moon and starry points of light

Sanctify the dark today.

Brian Hick October 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 5.10.24

 Larks above the Mist  (part 4)

Epona, goddess of the sky

Lifting heavenward all that fly

Sanctify the light today.

Mid-morning, but the mists have not dispersed

Culling the path to a stone's throw ahead.

Within the grey, a darker shape appears

Forming itself into a monstrous head

Vast and threatening as I approach

But smudged of detail or identity.

Only when I'm close enough to smell

The moss and hear the sodden branches drip

Do I begin to see the blackened trunks

Of the beech copse, sacred to Sol Epona.

Tiptoeing in, the golden canopy

Drops its quiet blessing on my head.

My mind is drifting, almost to prophecy,

As I climb the hilltop, where we herd

The horses for the winter, sensing that,

Two thousand years from now the Iron Folk

Will raise a fortress, Beranburgh by name,

To expel the herders from our native land.

On open downland, along Smeathe's Ridge,

The feral horse herds are left free to roam

Before the Beltane cull and the skill

Of metal-priests who cast the bronze into

The bits and bridles, broaches and spear-heads

Can tame the noblest stallions and mares.

I move on through wooded paths, across

The River Og, and into copses where

Plate mushrooms drip their primordial slime

Onto the rotting leaves and sodden moss

Clogging my feet, chilling bone and mind.

A wind cuts from the east as I emerge

Onto the upland moor, where grazing herds

Are silhouetted dark against the edge,

Moving silent as they crop and watch

Each other, until one breaks free to canter

Off to disappear into the mist.

The valley drops away from Pillow Mound

And on the southern side, a white mare stands

Alone, unmoved, as if she might become

One with the hillside and an icon cut

Like other figures, deep into the chalk.

The larks above the mist which drew me on

All yesterday have vanished as I squelch

This early morning back towards the ridge

And that ancestral tomb which sits just west

Of Dragon Hill and Uffington's White Horse

Leaping with the sun into the east.

Seen from Dragon Hill, the Horse leaps westward

Sinking its head beneath the rough-cut mounds

Yet, close to, its form seems to unwind

Vanishing in arcs of blazing light

And casual hints of where it might have been

Linger as chalk scars in the turf.

Brian Hick October 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 4.10.24

 Larks above the Mist (part 3)

Epona, mother of the herd,

Mare and newborn foal begird;

Sanctify our droving way.

These stones have stood far longer than recall

And tribal myths don't spin their origin

But thousands must have toiled to drag these blocks

From the far west down to this sacred place

Cutting the banks, raising the palisades

To honour gods we cannot even name.

I stand mute at the outer edge

While priests before me murmur to the gods

In words I'm barred from hearing till the day

They speak them over my now lifeless corps

Preparing my soft body for the birds

My bones for burial and my soul for grace.

All ceremonies done, I can set out

Through mists on every side make all seem strange

And paths, familiar to me, melt away

Into a bland, damp greyness where the sound

Of frightened birds, aroused by my soft steps,

Are the sole traces of a living world.

Brian Hick October 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 2.10.24