Shropshire Hills

The Wrexham and Shrewsbury Line

After the Hastings run and underground

The Wrexham train is manna to the soul.

A gentle easing back, with no more sound

Than coffee cups - real china - and the goal

Of self indulged enjoyment for three hours

Until we get to Shrewsbury - of course

Lunch is served, with beef that overpowers

The senses with its whiskey & pepper sauce

And though we must forgo the chocolate truffle

- which did not arrive in time today -

An apple Danish rectifies the ruffle

We might have felt before we doze away.

          All too soon we have to leave the train

          But be assured - we will be back again.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 29.7.22

We share a taxi out past Meole Brace

With a lady from South Africa

Before the Shropshire Hills start to embrace

Our view, and even from inside the car

They smile a welcome home.  Oh, is it just

A sentimental quirk, despite years away

I feel as much at one here as the dust

On any path along the South Downs Way?

The hotel has seen better days but strives

To match the glory of its place among

The woods and outcrops of the steep hillsides

Convincing us that nothing can be wrong.

From our room the Longmynd's just in sight

But that's for tomorrow - so for now, goodnight.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally HIck 29.7.22

 Why he wrote

I know that they do not wish to be rude

But oh how often have I heard them say

'I don't like poetry', as if that way

They could shrug off their own crude

Assessment of the language which they use

Day after day as practical, objective

And remote from metaphor, expletive,

Emotional outporing or abuse.

I don't write verse to gain some poets' prize

Or flatter with the beauty of a thought;

I write this way because I have not choice

Not knowing wht will come until the voice,

Which only lives once on the page, was wrought

A simple verse that's worthy of your eyes.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 22.7.22

 Failed Again

When I came to write about our visit

Strolling yesterday to see the view

Across the lakes with Hannah, mum and you,

I thought it would be easy to envisage

The summer afternoon, the cricket pitch

Empty golf links and the occasional flash

Of butterfly or rabbit, but the hash

I've made so far makes me keen to ditch

This effort, after all there's hardly time

To wind this up before we're on our way

To Shropshire for a break of a few days

Walking round Church Stretton - to Llanfairwaterdine?

          Thankfully this poem - bland and trite -

          Will never get beyond your casual sight.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 22.7.22 (sorry B)

 Prom 12

The Planets from Proms on the TV

Sir Charles Mackerras conducting in full view

As I'd pressed the red button and could see

Every phrase and nuance as it flew

From his fingertips into the hall

Enticing the music to ensue.

Fifty years ago we stood to hear

Sir Malcolm Sargent and the BBC SO

Working their way through the English Prom

With Paul Tortelier and the Elgar Cello

Concert, In the South or more,

Perhaps, the Introduction and Allegro.

          The music is the same; I wonder why

          If it doesn't change, oh, why do I?

Brian Hick 25.7.09

©copyright Sally Hick 22.7.22 

 On hearing yet another Unitarian Sermon

Such patronising sanctimonious twaddle will not do.

It's not just that Richard Dawkins is correct, it's more - Oh who

Will stand up to the gross semantic foggy fields thay sway

With elephantine language that knows it must have its way

And insist that its 'religion' with its liberal ideas

Is different from conservative beliefs which still adhere

To otherness and God-ness outside of all that is,

As if our quantum theory allows for this abyss,

Regurgitating of a mis-thought botch of naff beliefs

As if the Field theory can contain their god; good grief

Can't they see that we need to abandon all this chaff -

Or maybe we should just lie back and give ourselves a laugh?

Brian Hick 19.7.09

©copyright Sally Hick 16.7.22

 Beach Bar-B-Q when middle aged.

We met at four o'clock

Pegged out the wind break

Circled the garden chairs

Around the table with its

Box of wine and lemonade

Waiting for the fire to die back.

Pork and onion skewers,

Organic burgers, sausages

All carefully cooked

With not a ritual offering in sight.

We sit in accustomed places

Passing our usual remarks

Catching up on casual news

Of children and grand-children far away.

Some late arrivals cause a minor stir

But once they are seated

Calm returns once more.

And before twilight

Two by two they leave

Until only five of us remain

To clear away the plates

Pack up the wind break

Put away the chairs.

Brian Hick 20.7.09

©copyright Sally Hick 16.7.22

 It's weeks since we have walked upon the Downs

And there's more work to do before we can

Take the train to Shrewsbury for a break

To wander on the Long Mynd and the span

Of Wenlock Edge, Caer Caradoc and the hills

Which softly fold around  Church Stretton's streams.

As a boy I took the bus from town

To spend Good Fridays, lulled by Easter dreams,

Along the Cardingmill with family friends

Whose names have long faded from my memory

- David, our Aunt Dolly, and the rest -

Exposed to the expanse of my forgettery.

          This poem needs an open end, for how,

          Half a century on, will they seem now?

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 8.7.22

 Brimsdown

The weeping willow by the station house

Droops towards the level crossing gates;

Workmen boarding up the waiting room

Roll on the matt grey while he waits

The usual late arrival from the East.

The palette-works behind the down line clank

Against the latent blur of Radio One

Though he's oblivious as his earphones blank

Reality, white Metro keeps his mind

On Harry Potter, Horoscopes and Sport -

Anything but sense what's really there

At half-past seven, before the day was wrought

          Its dullness on a soul already lost

          To all the brightness life at him has tossed.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 8.7.22

 Pain Again

Everything around me seems ok,

So why then is my stomach filled with bile,

A hollow lump regurgitating while

The rest of me looks mildly on today?

Simple indegestion  will not do -

I'd take the Gavescon if that was all

It needed as an antidote for gall

And acid churning up its gastric stew.

So then, it must be hypochondria

Which doesn't mean there isn't any pain

It's just that it is easier to explain

Than deep psychosis or plain paranoia.

          'Stop feeling sorry for yourself!' you said,

          'If nothing else, it beats being dead.'

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 8.7.22

 To Martin

'Martin', she said and I had always thought

Of you as William, presumably because

That was my granddad's name, and it was

The first that came to mind, as if it ought

To have ancestral links even though

Neither of us have.  In the genealogical groups

That Dad had found, back to our Yorkshire roots

Before the Armada, not a single Tony

Or a Brian, and then, out of the blue

Your name appeared, unlinked to any other

In our past, but suddenly I've a brother

- Long thought lost - the one I never knew.

          How strange that after sixty years, you are more

          Real to me today than ever before.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 8.7.22

 Oh what joy

How can I be depressed

Cardiff Bay

And Pizza Express

Brian Hick July 09

©copyright Sally Hick 1.7.22

 Normal

'Oh yes,' I said, 'I'm getting back to normal.

Up at the usual time and off to work;

More than enough to keep me out of trouble;

Concentrate the mind, no time to shirk.'

And so I try to still the guilty wheel

Returning me each day to the point where,

Six months ago, normal used to mean

Just what it said, and he was there

In his usual place before the tele

Sounding off at all the goings on

At the Oxfam shop or in the papers

Setting the world to rights.  Oh how I long

           To sit in boredom listening to his voice

           But 'normal' now, I do not have a choice.

Brian Hick July 09

©copyright Sally Hick 1.7.22

 (coping with grief)

It's over, and I am here again

Sitting, with my coffee and the birds

Disinterested as ever, while the words

That have been beating in my brain

For ten days now are gently on the ebb.

Commuting up to London Bridge that thrust

Of returning daily life and the crush

Of rush our tubes is bliss, as routine's web

Takes over and my mind can err,

Relaxing in the dullness of the task

A stress which I can understand and ask

No more than that it simply will be there

          Rather the pressure that comes from the boss

          Than time to ruminate upon my loss.

Brian Hick 30.6.09

©copyright Sally HIck 1.7.22