A Grand-dad's Lament

A walk into the park with our grand-daughter

Time to have some lunch and then explore

The swings and things before we really ought to

Wander back in time for tea - or more!

The play area is a treat for us, with grans

And mums and dads all in holiday mood

Even if Hannah loudly hates the sand

Preffering the lake, the wildlife and the wood.

          Fifty-years ago park benches were awash

          With grand-dads and their pipes, each generation

          In its peculiar way enjoying the life

          The others gave it; but now, to drag the lash

          Of paedophilic hype into negation,

          I need to be accompanied by my wife.

The park in crowded

Children everywhere, but I,

Alone, cannot enjoy.

Brian Hick 25.7.09

©copyright Sally Hick 24.6.22

 Not another sonnet

Of course I know it doesn't have to rhyme

Or be in meter to be 'real' verse

But every time I start to write a line

It seems that even before I have rehearsed

A simple concept or a turn of phrase

The wretched thing has settled on a form

Far out of my control, with its own ways

Of coming to conclusions.  You may yawn

At my complaints and think it rather trite

For surely no one else can be to blame

For what is here, and anything I write

Has to be mine unless I am insane.

          My sixteenth century muse may think it clever

          But am I to be stuck in sonnet-land for ever?

Brian Hick 7.7.09

©copyright  Sally Hick 24.6.22

 On the first page of a new Moleskine

I bought my first Molestkine today;

But have I anything to say

Or write upon its august pages

Home to intellects and sages

Far beyond my meagre verses

Doggerel rhymes, impotent curses

At a world that does not show

The slightest interest, or wish to know

That things that splutter from my pen;

But then, can you blame them when

Bookshops filled with new best-sellers

By Sportsmen, Cooks or Furtune Tellers

All knocked down at thre-for-two

Can out sell anything we do?

But as least this page is now complete

And I can stop - and write it out in neat!

Brian Hick 3.7.09

©copyright Sally Hick 24.6.22

 The following four poems are expressions of grief after the death of Brian's father.

Garsington

She said she liked the colour of the car;

He joked my waistcoat was a nicer hue;

We passed pleasantries then went our own ways

And all the time, of course, they never knew

That half my mind was locked back in Redhill

And a chapel room, where he has lain

For two days now, awaiting Monday's hearse.

When last I sat upon his counter-pain

And held his hand, there was a sort of link

But now I stand embarrased by the lack

Of ritual response or mumbled prayer

Which might take off the edge of death's cold fact.

          It's cliched that we die alone, but here

          My loneliness seems far too much to bear.

Brain Hick 23.6.09

©copyright Sally Hick 17.6.22

 Waiting

For weeks we waited for the end to come

And now I wait for others to arrive

Before his funeral is finally begun

And our lives, put on hold, can be revived.

Oblivious birds squawk in the rambling rose

And cats prowl off along the garden sides

While I try to read or to compose

In this blank space between turning tides

Oh but I'd rather be anywhere but here -

Gerontius-like I yearn to be away

Cradled gently in some loving arm

Which will make all things well and bring a balm

To touch my forehead, kiss my cheek and say

That all is well, and dry my unwished tear.

Brian Hick 29.6.09

©copyright Sally Hick 17.6.22

 A hooded crow sat idly on the pump

A blur of rabbits drifting by the hedge

A barn owl silhouetted on a stump;

Why are they alive when he is dead?

Brian Hick June 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 17.6.22

Last summer on a Mediterranean cruise

I read Tennyson's out-pouring for his friend

Not realising that depression then

Was nothing to this knife-wound of The End.

Shopping in Oxford, doing the weekend quiz;

A new dress-shirt, a new bow-tie, like his,

Cannot still the ache within my heart

Which, with all I have, keeps me apart

As if his death had cast my mind adrift

Into a mirror world where everything

Was normal, yet a momentary shift

Can isolate me in a fog of grief.

          I know that this will pass but until then

          Consciousness can not help crying When?

Brian Hick June 2009

 Dining at Garsington

Selfishly, I hope that I die first

But if I ever have to live alone

Meals like this may help to compensate

For empty days of being on my own.

A little block of chocolate

Powder'd o'er

With cocoa

And I'm wearing

My cream suit.

Mad dogs and Englishmen

Dine in the rain at Garsington.

Brian Hick 23,6,09

©copyright Sally Hick 10.6.22

 I hear that microbes buried beneath the ice

For 20,000 years have been revived

And what should have been dead has been reversed

By gentle warmth, regardless of the price.

No hope for us, such complex entities,

To Frankenstein our forms with minds intact

When even sleep denies a conscious act

And memory is instantly snuffed out;

But yet if nothing conscious may survive

Bacteria and fire, perhaps I may

In infinite separation seek to play

Some part in the music of the spheres.

          What joy to think that somewhere there might be

          Something of beauty which once was part of me.

There is no last farewell for those who love

For though we may not see each other now

The love that bound us fast in life endures

For ever, deep as any furrow ploughed.

Brian Hick June 09

©copyright Sally Hick 10.6.22

 What tortured mind designed the parking meter,

Demanding not just any old donation

But, even before it will spew out a ticket,

Requires that you tap out your registation.

That of course assumes you can recall

The number and don't need to stride off back

To find the car and write it on your hand,

Only to find when you return a lack

Of logic in the buttons, which some fool

Has laid out vertically - as if we're all Chinese-

Crammed together and all below eye level

With markings that aren't large enough to read.

          Technology is getting far too bold -

          Or can it be that I am growing old?

Brian Hick 22.6.09

©copyright Sally Hick 3.6.22

 Escape

Flicking - as men do - across the channels,

Post breakfast, just before I had to wend

My way to London for another meeting

I chance on Igglepiggle at the end

Of yesterday's repeat of the Night Garden

Gently flowing through the ritual chatter

Which brings each quiet story to a close.

Upsy Daisy sleeps and Makka Pakka

It tucked up warmly with his pile of stones,

Tombliboos lie snug.  Across the lawn

The Pinky Ponk has landed for the night

And all are safe until the next day's dawn.

          The star-boat sails away into the night

          And I recall that all that is - is right.

Brian Hick 6.609

©copyright Sally Hick 3.6.22

 Commercial Road

Brought up in South London there are parts

Of the city I have never known

I went to the museums and had grown

Assuming that the West End was the heart

Of any interest;but these latter days,

Walking the canal and staying in

Whitechapel, I feel I can begin

To understand the multiferious ways

Of the East End and all that it has meant

To generations sparked from 'over there'

(The regions that we ravished) and aware

How limited my chilhood vision, pent

          Into a world where we were all the same

          And other races, no more than a name.

Brian Hick 6.6.09

©copyright Sally Hick 3.6.22