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Have I been wasting time since seventy-three,

From that first poem stumbling into view

Out on the hillside with the Sixth Form, who

Enjoyed the day, but failed to sense that he

Who took them there was brewing up a storm

Which would define his life, and even though

Blank days ensued, the need to write was so

Demanding that these very words and form

Are children to that verse above the lake

At Turner's Hill, and nothing seems to stop

The flow of verse, regardless of the crop

Of doggerel lines, imperfect rhymes, which make

          Occasional haitus but can't halt

          The ever rarer verses writ sans fault.

Brian Hick April 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 10.4.23