1457

They are asked to write

A paragraph on Wold Tone;

Memories flood back.

Brian Hick May 2015

©copyright Sally Hick 30.4.26

 1456

Unlike Jean Valjean I'm not so sure

And seventy years on things have not come clearer.

Looking back, I hope to see a path

Which has led on, inevitably nearer

To eternal truths, real insight and a sense

Of contentment, while doubts become far rarer.

But actually my mind is as confused

As it was at fourteen when I thought

That teenage years would pass and adulthood

Would bring the wisdom which was caught

Simply by getting older; yet today

I ponder why my life still seems so fraught.

I don't know who I am, but at least

I know who you are - and that brings me peace.

Brian Hick May 2015

©copyright Sally Hick 28.4.26

 1455

I am the song you heard before creation

I am the song that calls across the void

I am the song enfolding each sensation

I am the song the angels first enjoyed

I am the song that wakes you in the dawn

I am the song that eases you at night

I am the song that guides you through the shadows

I am the song that leads you to the light

I am the song that died away to silence

I am the song that darkness could not hide

I am the song that sang again at sunrise

I am the song that could not be denied

I am the song, sing out the joy of living

I am the song, sing out to show we care

I am the song, sing out the new creation

I am the song, sing out the love we share

Tune; Tell out my soul

Brian Hick May 2015

©copyright Sally Hick 24.4.26

 1454

Firle 2 5 15

Rain clouds drift across the beacon's head

Greying the damp spring fields, softening skies

As if muslin veils enshroud the Downs

Keeping them snug within a gentle void.

The dipoles and the ridge path where we walk

Have disappeared and even closer to

Swallows swoop then vanish from my sight,

Sheep rest, blurred against the misted hedge.

The train is quiet, a distant mobile call

Alone breaking the rhythm of the wheels.

Empty stations pass unnoticed till

The downs are gone and placid to the south

The sea yawns as the evening closes in.

Brian Hick 2.5.15

©copyright Sally Hick 21.4.26

 1453

What do they do with

All the photographs they take

On their mobile phones?

Brian Hick April 2015

©copyright Sally Hick 17.4.26

 1452

Wittgenstein sat on these steps

From forty-eight to forty-nine.

It was quiet, warm, befuddling;

Like his Tractatus on my mind.

Brian Hick April 2015

©copyright Sally Hick 15.4.26

 1451

On a roundabout near Galway

There's a dump for fairground rides,

A Ferris-wheel shorn of its seats,

A switch back thrown up by the tides.

But where are the crowds who squealed and shouted?

Where the candy floss and beer?

Where the children and the lovers

Clasping hands to share their fear?

Every happy moment passes

Every memory will fade

Every touch of human kindness

Will dissolve into the grave;

So why care if these abandoned

Rides are left to rot away;

Why concern ourselves with pleasures

Long since gone and had their day?

Do these rides so soon abandoned

Call to mind our fleeting lives,

The tiny sparks of love and gladness

Shining when nought else survives,

When even memory can't temper

Emptiness with thouhts of love

And life evolves in aimless circles,

Endless, as the skies above.

The Ferris wheel waits for the breakers

The Waltzers rust into the earth

Everything returns to dust

Until the moment of re-birth.

Brian Hick April 2015

©copyright Sally Hick 13.4.26