1025
At home, between the TV and my book,
A gentle sluicing of the internet,
Some washing up and eating - while I look
For other things to pass the time - I get
Concerned that for three days I have not tried
To write a thing, and time has slipped away
Without a passing thought that might have vied
For my attention or caused my mind to sway
From mundane tasks to subjects that should count
For more than just routine. But then why
Should any verse I write need to amount
To deep reflections scattered from on high
When simple thoughts expressed in simple ways
May be enough to bring a poet praise?
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 27.10.23
1023
September Sunset
The tide is at its lowest and the light
On this September evening is at odds
With Katrina's tail, which aids the flight
Of wind-surfers, but leaves the sky in nods
Of gently moving clouds and deepening blue.
Mud flats lie at ease and private yachts
Stuck toy-like on their keels await their cue
To bob when tidal rushes surge in knots.
But for now, the turning of the tide,
Against the twilight, brings a sudden calm
As if the gusting evening winds had lied
And all is bluster but no deep harm.
Here upon the terrace, my pint glass
Is half full, as the moments gently pass.
Brian Hick September 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 25.10.23
1022
Psalm
You have blessed me this day
You have moved me on
To a place I had not expected.
When I despaired and was ready to give up
You waited, supported, then gave me the word
Which touched my soul.
A word so quiet I did not hear it
A word so indistinct it had no meaning
A word which pierced my soul
Without pain or comprehension.
A word which changed my heart
And then my mind
So now I am renewed
My body ready for the task
The Word has set before me.
Brian Hick September 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 24.10.23
1020
Real retirement?
So if there is no work, what will I do?
OK, I can write, but will that fill
The hours between eating and the few
Self-imposed appointments which distil
Into a mess of generalities,
Amorphous days which drift into each other
Differentiated only by the ties
Of weekly meetings; sound retirement fodder.
Of course, life could pick up; it seems I could
Immerse myself in real fulfilling tasks,
Unpaid, but useful to the general good,
If only I'd respond to those who ask.
But at the moment I don't feel the urge
To volunteer for things that might emerge.
Brian Hick September 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 2023
1019
Forty five years! Can it be that long
Since we moved into Camden Town?
What happened to those days we don't recall,
Amidst the glories of the ups and downs
Which jump into our minds, but seem to miss
So much that has happened in between?
The children grew up; but am I remiss
In thinking that - for all the gaps - we seem
To be the same? You haven't changed at all
And if my hair is thinner, should I fuss?
Is it really so strange if the pall
Of age falls on the others, not on us?
Let's go on forever, until the day
The trumpet sounds - for then we can't say nay.
Brian Hick 10.9.11 Our wedding anniversary
©copyright Sally Hick 19.10.23
1017
So that's it then, they're all off back to school
And we can settle down to quieter days
Where the slight chill is not enough to fool
Us into thinking that autumn's gentle ways
Will all too soon give way to winter nights.
Returning to Southend, the Saga tours
Are in full flood and wind-blown fairy lights
Along the Winter Gardens promise cures
For summer doldrums and the ills that come
Too quickly with the passing of the years.
But even here the rain drowns out the sun
Cutting off an evening without tears.
How swift the span from school to Saga coach
Even if we're deaf to death's approach.
Brian Hick September 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 17.10.23
1015
Next week it's back to work and so today
May be the last I'll spend at the White Rock -
If only for this summer - and the bay
Is quiet now the tourists with their shock
Of caravans have shuffled back up north.
A pair of lycred cyclists gently cruise
The promenade, chancing pedestrian wrath.
As they drift towards the evening booze
And fish and chips down on Rock a' Nore.
But silence does not come till I am home
Away from booming voices by the shore
Which crash the moments I have hoped would come
To secure the memories of these weeks
Blessed by a touch of you along the beach.
Brian Hick September 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 16.10.23
1014
Relics
On the windowsill
My grandfather's inkwell -
A thank-you for services rendered in the war -
Watches me as I go down the stairs.
Pedantically, I straighten it each time.
As if it mattered.
And it does.
This is the only link
Between his silent self and me.
No difference then to Cutherbert's wooden altar;
Each reminding me there is no other.
Brian Hick September 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 14.10.23
1013
No tree in the park is truly straight,
Each leans slightly one way or the other
So rather than perfection, nature makes
Unique individuals from one mother.
So, Though this park was purpose planned
Nature gently upsets all the care
The gardeners take to keep its shape in hand
And the erstwhile visitors, unaware
Of the hours of work that go into
Making it look simple, just assume
That the occasional tweak is all you have to do
To achieve the wonders now in bloom.
But who trims my deadheads, water my roots
To ensure I thrive and bring new shoots?
Brian Hick September 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 13.10.23
1010
You fill my days with sunlight
You gird my nights with peace
You concecrate my being
You make my yearning cease.
You carry on without me
You go where I don't dare
When despair has gripped me
And no one else would care.
You ignore my cliches
You don't hear my cries
You simply love the frightened child
That hides behind my eyes.
Brian Hick September 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 10.10.23
1009
Storm clouds gather but late summer sun
Floods the woodlands flashing past the train.
Autumn edges through the fields to run
In ever thinning lines against the grain
Awaiting the last harvest of the year.
Another week and schools will settle down
Bringing peace to pensioners who fear
The clumps of sub-teens clogging up the town.
Those six short weeks will quickly disappear
Into a facebook entry and a pile
Of used train tickets, photos on the pier,
Phone numbers from a bloke named Kyle.
Ten months will bring the summer back again;
How long will this year's memories remain?
Brian Hick summer 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 9.10.23
1008
I have to write, that much I must believe;
Too old to start again, too late to change
My ways, to put aside the things that grieve.
I have to write.
There was a time I hoped I could arrange
My life and plan the things I would achieve
But time runs out and stultifies the range
Of opportunities, while hopes deceive
The body's gradual decay, as age
Takes over and the mind cannot conceive.
I have to write.
Brian Hick autumn 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 7.10.23
1007
Simple Joys?
Of 'simple joys', like living without thought
Blotting out philosophy and kant?
Or the vapid truths religions taught
Of 'simple joys'.
Once I hoped that reason could prevent
The endless oscillations which have brought
No peace of mind, but in the event
The logical conclusions that I sought
vanished leaving nothing but a scent
Of 'simple joys'.
Brian Hick autumn 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 6.10.23
1006
Four old men, sitting in the corner,
Arguing about the R A F
Oblivious to the sea beyond the terrace,
Immersed in memories of what is left.
'Did you know that Johns was not a catain
And what about the oil that leaked away
While he was landing? Have you got the sugar?
Oh, please, no more chips today!'
Across the road, the wavelets turn in silence
Ruffled by the wind but not upset
Even by the centuries of blindness
Which pass for human influence and wit;
For they know that when these humans have passed on
This surf will still be singing its own song.
Brian Hick autumn 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 5.10.23
1004
How often did you pass that hill
Where the bodies hung in agony,
Sweating out their final gasps, until
Death restored an unsought harmony?
When did you first realise that there,
Nailed to a cross, the truth might slowly dawn
That you had failed, shouting in bleak despair,
While bored squaddies stand about and yawn?
Where then was the hope that had inspired
Three years of teaching, though the restless mob
Were more aroused by miracles than fired
By thoughts of new beginnings or of God?
As you were dying, did you really see
That you were doing this because of me?
Brian Hick September 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 2.10.23
