After walking Hadrian's Wall and recording it in verse.

Post Wall

Now that Wall is finished I have time

To write a little something for myself

- Leaving Lepidus Vectus on the shelf -

Immerse myself in pentameter and rhyme.

Oh, the exquisite bondage of the form

Tying me down to wrestle with the knots

Of sensual metaphor and sticky blots

Which happily contort themselves against the norm

Until the whole speeds on towards the point

Of no return, where every tingling nerve

Explodes into an ecstasy of words

Exulting in the power to anoint,

          Turning this sober structure by their might

          Into an orgasm of delight.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 27.5.22

 1 June

The seven-fifteen from Warrior Square to Brighton-

Two carriages and crowded all the way -

But on this first of June, how could the day,

In blazing sunlight, fail my soul to lighten?

Just time for a coffee and a croissant

Before I'm off again to Southampton Central

With time to read the paper and essential

Solitude, to meditate upon.

The Downlands and the Sea as we slip past

West Worthing, Chichester and Angmering

Down to the Water's muddy flats which bring

The end in sight - for this peace can not last.

          Then, after three brief hours of quiet thought

          I have no choice but turn my hand to work.

Brian Hick 1.6.09

©copyright Sally Hick 27.5.22

 The Friday morning frost tries to pretend

That winter's still around but by the hedge

Rabbits munch at weeds then amble off

As if this early warmth will never end.

Near Glynde the mist cocoons some new-born lambs

Watched by a pheasant, grumbling and aloof.

At Hampden Park I wait for the half-past,

Mac' still on but hardly necessary

For students in shirt sleeves and on their phones

Seem confident this sudden burst will last

And tip us into Spring and so to Summer

Before we've realised the winter's gone/

          For over sixty years I've loved the Spring;

          But how many more like this will I see in?

Brian Hick  spring 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 27.5.22

 Dare I ASK?

A bruschetta of fried bread

And withered leaves;

A pasta of reheated penne

Chicken chunks and sauce

From dubious wild mushrooms.

But - ah but - at last

Fresh mint tea and all that one could ask;

Just mint leaves, frsh boiled water

Nothing else;

I can overlook the indifferent food

Tea, and the evening sun, makes all life good.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick May 2022

 ASK again

The sun is in my eyes but I don't care

I'll sit here, until it moves away

And I am in the shade, and its decay

Says more about the world than I might dare.

I only came to eat yet in this time

Of enexpected quiet I have found

Thoughts ignored, or possibly profound,

Surfacing at last, now that I'm 

Calm and focussed - no, quite the reverse -

Bothered into stillness by the thrash

Of recent memory, querulous and brash,

Which will not let me contemplate the worse.

          The news and weather want me to give in

          But something, deep inside, says I can win.

Brian Hick May 2009

©copyright Sally Hick May 2022

 Drift

Until December he had seemed ok;

Aging yes, but mind alert and bright

Even if his conversation raced

Inevitably to Oxfam and a foray

Against RMH and his pension rights,

With letters of complaint - all double spaced.

Then, almost before we knew, he'd slipped away

Into a world where even when he spoke

It wasn't to us, or for us to hear.

He tapped out endless labels on his tray

Or sang songs from his childhood, which provoked

Quiet tears, though he was not aware.

I held his hand and hoped that he might know;

We spoke and hoped that he would understand,

But realised in those few moments when

He was himself, he had no memory

Of who was there or what was said to him.

And so it drifts, like childhood's rest returning

Where sleep and wake are equally untrue.

In hospital once more, linked to the drips

Which keep his body going, if not his mind,

He talks of trainig for the RAF,

Saying we've passed, but he is not yet fit

To be a pilot; then for a little time

Sleep flies him out, while we wait on, bereft.

Twenty years ago I thought I'd known

Something of him, andd had felt quite close.

Even if rarely seen, we seemed to share

Some sense that he and I, unspoken, had grown

To value who we were, but now the loose

Connective has been lost, and all I do is stare.

Down at the tight fit sheets upon his bed,

The pulsing drips and last week's wilting flowers,

Snatched conversations, nurses by the door,

Realising, as he turns his head

Towards the wall, no matter how many hours

I stay with him, I could not miss him more.

Brian Hick May 2009

©copyright Sally Hick May 2022 

 Jack in the Green

Each May I take a leaf and keep it safe

Until we re-awake the Solstice fire

When, with the charcoal from the previous year,

We burn them all to fulfil our desire

That, at the season's turn, we celebrate

Life that continues despite the pit falls

And stumbling blocks that hinder and annoy,

Accepting them as part of Life in all

Its glory, and the underlying joy

Which cuts through all the frets along the way

Surges up again, to fill us now

As we green-up and willingly obey

          The call to witness in the castle ground

          That Jack is dead, and summer will abound.

Brian Hick May 2009

☺copyright Sally Hick May 2022

 A Lark on Hadrian's Wall

Larks and pewits have endorsed our way

And on each side the herons seem to be

Bright mens of a vow accomplished

As we complete our walk from sea to sea.

In recognition of the vow we made

At Benedalcrag's bay on Tynemouth strand

We reunite these waters with themselves

At Maia's Fort, on Solway's sea-born sand.

For seven days we carried the North Sea

Over the serried crags along the line

That Hdrian set with mile gates and forts

Until we reached this sea - and so conjoin

          All things in one, in thanks we are together

          In life and love - regardless of the weather!

Brian Hick May 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 13.5.22

May 2

A mottled sky; the sun, not yet awake,

Lies tucked behind the houses on the ridge

While mist hangs like a smoker's guilt, to bridge

The silent moments left until daybreak.

Dulled in the shaddow, we stand mute and alone,

Sliding from the bedroom to the desk

By way of instant coffee, and a mess

Of papers, laptops and a mobile phone.

Outside the carriage window, nothing's clear,

The occasional sun, a greying distant disc,

Vanishes for shame into the mist

Pleading to be anywhere but here.

          Far off, beyond the sleepers and the sea

          I hear Herne's call, and yearn to be set free. 

Brian Hick May 2008

©copyright Sally Hick May 2022

May Day

He overslept, and so missed out on all

The early morning rites up on West Hill

To dance-in May Day morn and sense the thrill

As sunrise answeres Herne the Hunter's call.

But later on our strolling sonneteer

Found tulip beds demanding to be viewed,

Their garish clashes of acrylic hues

(No pastille shades of water colour here)

Rang out across the un-mown grass in shoals

Of pink and lilac, orange-maid and red

Vying to be the brightest in each bed.

To print themselves upon a poet's soul.

          Daffodils may have tripped up Wordsworth's mind

          But Hasting's Tulips are not far behind! 

Brian Hick May 2008

©copyright Sally Hick 9.5.22