14
North facing in November
Grey seas curl against the shore
Brown ridges falling awkwardly
On pebble bank before
They sink as quickly as they came
Driven by a Viking storm
Cutting across the Irish sea
Out of a blustered sawn.
How quickly it has changed;
Yesterday morning
Could have been Spring,
Its open sky
A zircon set
Above a placid sea,
As we stood unmoved
By the coolness
From the south.
Brian Hick November 2010
©copyright Sally Hick 30.11.22
11
The Wanderer
Autumn's gold has rusted in the fog
And trees stand damply waiting for the frost
To strip away the few remaining leaves.
Quiet melancholy silences the cost
Of darkness, scattering the hopes of ease,
The distant memory of bright yule logs,
Shared feasts and friendly faces in the glow
Of fire or tallow flames, where warmth was more
Than sitting near the hearth. I am alone -
As lifeless as the drift-wood on the shore -
No kin alive, no place to call my own,
No love survived to let my spirit grow.
Where can I turn when all I had is lost
And thought can only serve to count the cost?
Brian Hick 28.11.22
©copyright Sally Hick 28.11.22
12
I've never been so cold;
But that's not true.
Fifty years ago there was no heat
Except the kitchen fire
That my mum lit
Each morning
When I went out for a wash.
My bedroom window frosted every day.
Inside the glass and out,
The lino burnt my feet
If I missed the slip mat
Made of old nylons
By Mrs Bright upstairs;
And even this was mild
Given the dash across the yard
Round past the shed
To the outside loo
Where the wind whistled in the bottom
And out the top.
Cold?
You don't know you're born!
Brian Hick 2010
©coyright Sally Hick 25.11.22
The News
Sally prefers not to watch the News
But dutifully I plod through until
Guilt or frustration overtakes the drive
For information and I switch off, but still
The ghosts remain to sour our evening meal.
Impotent against the endless flow
Of pain, injustice, arrogance and greed
I flail around to make sese of the slow
Acidic drip etching each raw fact
But smothering the spark of hope with lies
Accumulating till I cannot tell
What I should think, and thinking act, to rise
Above this indolent depressive mood,
Fight for the preservation of the good.
Brian Hick Nov 2010
©copyright Sally Hick 23.11.22
I've
Been here
Too long; today
I did not notice the
Pylons.
Brian Hick November 2010
©copyright Sally Hick November 2022
9
I pass him on my way
And sometimes give spare change;
But next day
He is there again.
We smile politely,
Knowing he's well trained
To ignore those
Who ignore him.
He used to have a dog
As neutral in its pose
As his
Even when a coin
Dropped near its nose.
But since last winter's ice
He slumps alone;
The faded blanket
Loosely wrapped
Leaving just his head
To hint at life.
I could give so much more -
Do so much more
Of course he knows
And know I know.
So what is stopping me?
Brian Hick November 2010
©copyright Sally Hick 21.11.22
7
There are leaves on the line, so obviously we are late-
No matter that it's blowing a gale
As we stand waiting for the ten to eight.
There are leaves on the line.
But worse is to come; the final nail
A stream of cancellations at Liverpool Street
Because their over-running works entail
The closure of the entire Southend fleet,
While any other routes are sure to fail
To get me to work sometime this week.
There are leaves on the line.
Brian Hick November 2010
©copyright Sally Hick 18.11.22
4
I thought it would be quiet when the rush
Of children had exploded from the school
But turning into Elder Drive, the hush
I had expected was quite over-ruled
By starlings massed along the aerials,
Atop the plane trees, on the bungalows,
Twittering in a flap of eagerness
Until, as if commanded, they arose
To sweep across the evening sky in bursts
Of darkened stars, as suddenly unseen
As if they held the gift of light within
Their power, while I alone am left to dream
The joy of such companionship in flight
From silence to the echo of the night.
Brian Hick November 2010
©copyright Sally Hick 14,11,22
2
Individual pylons are okay
But near Southend they come in feral clumps
Like teenagers on heat.
Even autumn's colours are subdued
By greying lumps strung out across the bland
Decaying flats.
Morose commuters, on their wy to work
Ignore the slow decline
Towards the east
Assuming London life will be enough
To overwrite abandoned nights
In numbing purgatory.
Meanwhile the smirking pylons watch the trains
Trundle on, then trundle back again
To Southend's terminus.
Brian Hick November 2010
©copyright Sally Hick 11.11.22
BS 1
I'm not used to filling out my time
Waiting for the next appointment
Who will probably be late
And meanwhile I'm at a loose end
With nothing that's essential
To the smooth running of this place;
But I'm annoyed by waste
Which only functions to abuse
My agitated passion to achieve,
To complete one thing
Then move on to the next
Rather than sit here suppressing grief.
If there's to be no fire in my belly
I might as well watch Countdown on the tele.
Brian Hick November 2010
©copyright Sally Hick 9.11.22
John Snetzler came to England
About 1742
And quickly made a name for himself
As an Organ Builder who
Underwtood the English
With their unusual habit
Of singing hymns so lustily
Then hunting fox or rabbit.
He set up shop in Soho,
Not far from Handel's home,
Repairing others' organs
Until he chanced to roam
Up north where Unitarians
Had settled, and he found
A ready market for his wares
In homes, so he was bound
To have a special liking
For their quieter ways
And designed the Dulciana
For Unitarian praise.
Buckingham heard our organ when he
Visited William Strutt
At St Helen's House in Derby
In 1813, but
Something happened after that
And in 1837
Walkers made a full rebuild
After you were riven
By some catastrophe or other
Which destroyed your case
And three ranks of your pipework
Putting in their place
A half-rank Dulciana -
Though not of Snetzler's type -
And a softly liquid Flute
Which continues to delight.
Moved from Norton to Banbury
Before you made a start
For Lewes' West Gate Chapel
And thus, by horse and cart,
To Hastings Unitarians
For twelve pounds and a beer
In thanks for careful carriage and
Erection over there.
Since when you have given joy to all
And musical delight
For over seventy years until
We come at last tonight
To say goodbye to how you've been
Since 1930, for
You are off to Surbiton
Where Matthew will restore
You, so we look towards the future
When we'll see you again
With your new case and ranks of pipes
So, God speed until then.
Lets raise a glass and wish you well
Until we hear once more
The sounds that Johann Snetzler heard
In 1764!
BH 27.11.09
©copyright Sally Hick 7.11.22
Bonfire Night
Nick can't wait until the family get here
And let's off rockets, casually, by twos.
The children cheer at every new-lit fuse
While adults toy with wine, canapes and beer,
Just-cooked chicken legs, sausage rolls,
Potatow wedges, crisps and vegan dips
Which Emily stock-piled through endless trips
To Sainsbury's and the Co-op in the hols.
An hour of bangs and whizzes, oohs and aahs,
'til excited children, sparklers clutched in hand,
Await the final rocket of the day
And then a plate of hot-dogs leads the way
Back inside, for bedtime stories, and
A dying bonfire 'neath the silent stars.
Brian Hick 11.11.09
©copyright Sally Hick 4.11.22
Breakfast
'Would you like tea of coffee?'
'Yes. Two boiled eggs,' you replied.
Another senior moment
Or just that you relied
On what she normally asks us
Here at the Falcon Hotel
As we slip into the familiar
Pattern of breakfast. Ah well,
At least we both started laughing
Aware from the moment you spoke
That what you had said without hearing
Was worth a repeat as a joke
When the family gathers together
And stories are being retold
Of the funny things that happen
To all of us as we grow old,
Thankful we can laugh together
Knowing, for now, we can share
A joke at each other's confusion -
Before we're too senile to care!
Brian Hick 11.1109 Stratford-on-Avon
©copyright Sally Hick 2.11.22
