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There was a time when I could simply write

What came to mind regardless of its worth

And, for my part, it seemed the very sight

Of lines upon a page laid out in verse

Were more than compensation for the time

It took to wrestle with the words and form;

And even if it didn't always rhyme

It pleased because you liked what I had drawn

From walking to the station, or the sight

Of distant starlings, foxes padding round,

Brief memories of childhood, sudden bright

Awareness, insight, caught if not profound.

          But now I seem to scrap more than I keep

          Wishing it more meaningful and deep.

Brian Hick March 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 8.3.23