Visiting Grand-Children - Day 2

Henry's playing football, George is doing a show

While we take turns to watch them and the clock, which seems dead slow,

So out we go to Clambers to burn off the excess

Of energy, and leave our home to settle to the mess

Of jigsaws, trains and bedtime bears; of Thomas and Ben Ten

Hoping that when we come back it's time for bed again;

But of course it isn't and they're hungry even though

They'd chips and crisps and fruit-shoots to make their tummies glow.

A little girl is trying to bash Henry while he climbs

Into a mesh of balls and nets to bounce away the time

And George has made a little friend who shares a love of cars -

They've found they can go down the slide on them, although it jars

Against the edge and topples them in heaps upon the floor

But being three they giggle, jump back on and go for more,

While we sit on the couches, spread against the wall in twos

Like every other parent here just longing for the news

That it's time for In the Night Garden and so we ought to leave

Before they all get second wind and we lose the will to live.

Brian Hick December 29th 2009

©copyright Sally Hick December 2021

 Winter Walk

The winter morning's mist dampens our way

And shuts off all the view across the heath.

A solitary tree atop a ridge

Startles, its charcoal pencilled lines

Etched across a water-colour blur

As we drift away from Battle Hill.

Claggy footpaths topped with rotting oak

And birch, slow us down, giving time

To contemplate the days that lie ahead;

Solstice celebrations with a clutch

Of children and grand-children, all enthused

At simply being together for a change.

            By afternoon the sun is bright and clear

            And promises a safe end to our year.

Brian Hick December 2009

©copyright S Hick 2021

 The flooded fields are slowly sinking back

And sheep now crop where yesterday the geese

Paddled and flapped their way against the wind

To find a little refuge in the leas

Of gorse and bramble, which alone survive

Late autumn's rape of all that summer brought

In lushness, colour and luxuriant warmth.

Will these shallow pools begone before

The first full winter frosts can freeze the ground

Choke up the rabbit runs and leave the fox

To fumble in the bins and rubbish bags

Outside the second homes now double locked?

            And does today's bright sky and gentle wind

             Presage a dubious pace, before the end?

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright S Hick December 2021

 Christmas Eve

So, Brother Fox, where are you tonight?

While we indoors suffuse a Christmas glow

Outside dark rain has washed away the snow

And shrivelled up the dulling winter light.

It cleared away your markers place with care

Each evening when you pass this way to take

Our offerings cast out in the wake

Of more extravagance than you could bare.

            And as I turn down just one more mince pie

            Idling with a glass of Cote de Rhone

            I wonder if you've found the Turkey bone

            I put out earlier hoping I might spy

            Your fleeting visit like a welcome ghost

            Bringing a Solstice blessing to the host,

Brian Hick December 2009

©copyright S Hick December 2021

 Foucault's Logos

Do I dare to think Foucault was wrong

And that, rather than being the very heart

Of all that is, Language is but a part-

Even inconsequential - when the song

Of all creation does not heed the word

In order to exist or to evolve

Over all the aeons that have rolled

By unreflected? So Logos is not Lord

And matter is not held within its power

Any more than vegetative life

Requires substantive syntax to entice

The bees to gently pollinate each flower.

          But while the jury's out, I suppose I might

          Just continue in the gap to write.

Brian HIck

©copyright S Hick December 2021

 Poetry?

How can you say you don't like Poetry

When you're aware it's life and death to me,

And all the 'work' I do can go for nought

Compared to one good image, one fertile thought,

Which pins down what I feel as I refine,

Within the strictures of the iambic line,

The words that play at Scrabble in my head

Until they settle and the lines are read?

But then the poetry's not in the words;

It's in the winter sunlight which can bring

Grey hills to life, a sudden flush of birds,

Or moonlight over Chanctonbury Ring;

            And your artistic soul, purer than mine,

            Needs no words to experience the divine.

Brian Hick 

©copyright S Hick December 2021

 Ode

She's quite unfair to writers

Of plays and poetry.

Victoria Wood

Is far too good

For the likes of you and me.

Her TV shows and specials 

Created without fuss

Gain vast awards

And more applause

Than all of the rest of us.

We've struggled on for ages

Got printed here and there

While every script

She lightly tripped

Went straight from pen to air.

It's Acorn Antiques the Musical,

Dinner Ladies on TV

And popular songs

To soo the throngs

Of hoi-polloi like me.

But, I suppose I'm only jealous

For if I were she

I'd take delight

That I could write

And earn so easily.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright S Hick December 2021

           Why

        do we get

     hot cross buns

 all the year round

but mince pies only

             at

       Christmas? 

Brian Hick December 2009

©copyright S Hick December 2021

 1st December

Two gulls silhouette

Against the casual blue of

A December dawn,

Frost links bare fields

Before the winter sunlight

Lulls them into life

But by nine o'clock

North facing roofs are still white

From the midnight chill.

Commuters shiver

As they wait for their train which

Is delayed once more

And morning's beauty

Can't conceal the fact that you

Are not beside me.

Brian Hick December 2009

©copyright S Hick December 2021

Waiting

Mid December and all the trees are bare

But fields are lush with damp unfrosted grass.

The wind may have ripped off the last few leaves

But on the ground the warmth and wet amass

Abundant winter fodder for the sheep

Who stand in sleepy huddles, unaware

Of sodden churchyards, or the children's swings

Abandoned to the crows as they prepare

For winter and the coming of the dark.

Above, the starlings circle and display

Before they disappear behind the copse

Draining off the last dregs of the day;

            Yes I am happy, knowing what is to come

            Our Solstice Fire and the returning Sun,

Brian Hick December 2009

©copyright S Hick December 2021 

I want to write something serious for a change,

Rather than the whimsy of the lines 

Which have trickled out in recent times,

Fun in themselves, but lacking the sense of rage

Or depth that you expect to find in poetry

Which is worth the name.  I want to stir

The emotions and the mind, not merely slur

Between the witty and the symmetry

The sonnet's form imposes on my mind.

Maybe, like the monkeys, if I write

An infinite variety of shite

I'll come up on occasions with a find.

            Oh to see what Shakespeare threw away

            And know that he too had the odd off day.

Brian Hick December 2008

©copyright S Hick2021

Two days of coughing and now comes the flu

Which everyone has had except for me;

So now it's my turn and I needs must be

Shivering in my dressing gown, while you - 

Light of my life - ply me with Beecham's powder,

Thin soup and herbal tea - I need the fluids -

And at least we can be thankful to the Druids

We celebrate the Solstice not the flower

Of Maidenhood at this time of year.

This verse runs easily enough between the bouts

Of medication until they run out

When I collapse in fever and in fear.

            It is a truth, when men have caught the flu

            They're bound to have it twice as bad as you.

Brian Hick December 2008

©copyright S Hick 2021

Oh for the days when I could slip away

At lunchtime to the sea, where I could sniff 

Th'ozone, and dippers skimming over pools,

Left easing in a midday warmth, that fools

My senses to believe this fragile life

Could last forever, if only I could day;

But working every day, I've found no time

To walk down to the shore, as winter drifts

Its way onto the beach, and cannot curl

Myself into the silence of the swirl

Of spume cresting the pebbles as it lifts

The flotsam of the day out of my mind.

            When daily tension's grind tears me apart

            Our Sussex sea alone can heal my heart.

Brian Hick December 2008

©copyright S Hick 2021

 Why can't they celebrate Christmas

The way we used to do,

The Queen at three

And then high tea

And grandad in the loo?

Why can't they celebrate Christmas

The way it was of old

With stockings hung

And loads of fun

And children doing what they are told?

Why can't they celebrate Christmas

As it was in the past

With holly berries

And tiny sherries

And drunks at midnight mass?

Why can't they celebrate Christmas

When church was the place to be

To sing and pray

And spend the day

Without wall-to-wall TV?

Why can't they celebrate Christmas

Without the need to dabble

For nowadays

Nativity Plays

Are Whoops-a-daisy-angel?

Why can't they celebrate Christmas

Innocently, without care,

Before Dr Who

And Superman II

And Snowmen walked in the air?

And why can't I celebrate Christmas

For what it is today

With family, friends

And all that pretends

To 21st century ways?

For then I could celebrate Christmas

Without any complaint or moan

And raise a cheer

For all to hear

Merry Christmas to everyone!

Brian HIck 25.12.08

©copyright S Hick December 2021

Winter's here and autumn's damp has gone;

Frost now monochromes the ground, and trees

Stand bare to let in morning light; the breeze

Cuts at my chaffing face before the sun.

Furrowed fields are frozen and the pond's

Iced over, leaving ducks confused to peck

And glide, as in some avine discotheque,

Before crash-landing into dying fronds.

Soft water-colour clouds edge out the sky

And rooks seem ill at ease among the sheep

Fretting that their nests will never keep

Until the warmth returns in spring, while I

            Am glad that winter has at last arrived,

            Made up its mind, and brought my soul alive.

Brian Hick December 2008

©copyright S Hick December 2021 

Because we love

The sombre suites and quiet voices greet

The friends and family member we've not seen

For many years, and would not now have been

Together, but that he had died last week.

Gentle recollections of a man-

His endless jokes, his warmth, his quiet care-

Permeate the church, till I'm aware

That something has surpassed the grief, which can

Seem all pervasive, to overcome the tears

Which have been shed and will be shed again

For all who sit here, though we know not when

That day will come, in the ensuing years.

             For Love transcendent, close as hand in glove,

            Knows Grief only exists because we love. 

Brian Hick 28.11.08

©copyright S Hick December 2021