1109

Hearing the six o'clock alarm;

Realising I don't need to get up.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 31.1.24

 1108

Winter 1960

Grey and cold - the coldest day this year -

And January has two days to run

Before the February frosts can tare

The snowdrops from their beds and the dull sun

Drag itself beyond the morning mist

To tempt the hibernating forms to stir.

Beneath the blankets, ticking off the list

Of things that won't get done today for sure,

I hope the clock is wrong and that I've got

At least another hour before I need

To risk the freezing lino and the spot

Out in the yard where icy waters breed.

Perhaps when I grow up, as most folk do,

I'll have enough for a bathroom and an indoor loo.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 31.1.24

 1107

31 Jan (2012)

Grey, cold, depressing,

Every endless winter day;

And now comes the snow.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 30.1.24

 1106

A pile of rubbish always makes me sad.

Once, not so long ago,

These treasures brought delight

As each was carefully unpacked

Installed, admired,

Until

Eventually,

They broke

Or fashion overtook their dated look.

So each was set aside

Stored in the loft

Until

Life ended at the skip

Or heaved into the dawn's recycling cart.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 29.1.24

 1105

From the train

A fox trots gently

Across the early morning

Frost towards the wood.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 26.1.24

 1104

Nothing comes of nothing, speak again,

Said Lear, but of course he had not read

The latest theories circling my brain.

Nothing comes of nothing?

Well, it seems that that idea is dead,

Assuming the Higgs Boson can attain

Respectability, and assumptions wed

Themselves to prove that nothingness can gain

Corporeal presence; no matter that my head

Can't cope and needs an aspirin for the pain.

Nothing comes of nothing.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 25.1.24

 1103

Silence speak so I may hear your voice

In words that resonate within my heart,

Stir up my mind and make my soul rejoice.

Let silence speak.

Mere language breeds confusion from the start

Insisting it is Truth and any choice

Is best left up to others who have art

And education on their side, where moist

Lips and oily tongues obscure the part

Which I would hear, but cannot for the noise.

Let silence speak.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 24.1.24

 1102

Wassail!

The  autumn's apple harvest is in store,

            The chutney made, the cider stilled,

            The cakes fresh baked, the punch-bowl filled

And we, in winter knowing the season's law

Cry Wassail and celabrate together;

            That first fruit of Eden ta'en,

            That hidden star that eased our pain,

That blossom promised, and ever changing weather,

Create the eternal cycle of our lives.

            So drain the punch-bowl to the core,

            Certain there will be still more

As long as love and friendship both survive.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 23.1.24

 1101

The earth is waiting silent as the sun

Which slinks across the greying winter skies

Content that the warmer days will come.

The earth is waiting.

Trees and bushes, dead to the casual eye,

Are urging early snowdrops to arise,

As far away they hear the muted sigh

Of Spring returning from the depth, to prise

A resurrection from the fields which lie

Expectant, knowing nothing really dies.

The earth is waiting.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 22.1.24

 1100

17th January

Late frost trims the uncut winter lawns.

Against the blackened branches up above

The cherry blossom spreads its pale-pink buds.

The Rose Garden seems dead

But every woody stem is touched with green.

At low tide, two dogs race the sands,

Blurred shadows in the mirrored midday sun.

A couple sit for coffee on the White Rock terrace

Wrapped up but relaxed.

A flock of gulls swoops, turns and melts away

Beyond the pier.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 19.1.24

 1099

You're at your best as a grumpy old man a close friend said to me

And while it's nice to be recognised, I would rather be

Remembered for my better side, assuming I have one,

Or the more refelctive verse on times that are long gone

But seemed to me worth pinning down, if only to recall

Those fleeting miracles of life which so quickly fall

Into the pit of memory, juggling in my mind

With all the daily trivia which gets left behind.

Yet for all the serious verses which I want to write

It seems the ruder pieces are the ones which see the light

And please for their acidity, their bile and lack of charm

Attacking Bexhill's OAPs, the pills that fail to calm,

The awfulness of Christmas, the daily lives which run

Away from us out of control, teenagers who shun

The niceties of language - ah but there I go again

And that's before we get to fast-food outlets or the rain

Which either comes in bucketfuls or refuses to arrive

So shrivelling our summer crop of lettuce and endive.

Pause there - you see there is no end to a grumpy old man's moan

So if I were you I'd push off now - while you can still get home.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 18.1.24

 1098

I wanted to write

But they played The Lark Ascending

On Radio Three.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 17.1.24

 1097

I'm on the train coming back from Birmingham

Surrounded by the clack of laptops

In the quiet coach

Indifferent hedgerows scutter past the window

Beneath a lifeless January sky

The coffee fails to come

I've read the Metro

Checked the verse I am to read

As entertainment for the Christmas  lunch

And can't be bothered with my current book.

Boredom, ennui or simply laziness?

I'm on the train.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 17.1.24

 1096

I am a poet - but however much I try

I am generally ignored, even when my verse

Occasionally charms with subtlety.

I am a poet.

Of course I'd rather live without the curse

Which comes from the disinterested eye

Or grudging praise from colleagues who still nurse

Assumptions that this writing phase will die

Like other whims - and might have been far worse;

But I'll convince them all and make them see

I am a poet.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 16.1.24

 1095

The train is almost empty;

The quiet coach is quiet;

I have suchi, feta parcels,

And a small Pays d'Herault

Why would I want to get to Brum

Twenty minutes faster

When the comfort of the journey's

More imortant than the speed?

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 15.1.24

 1094

Be not afraid -your word comes in the night

When memory stirs shadows in my mind

And sleep ignores my yearning for the light.

Be not afraid.

Darkness holds no terror and I find

Consolation in solitude, or the sight

Of others' happiness; but there behind

The smiling lurks a cankered blight

Which rots away all hope that life is kind

Until your Word prepares me for the fight.

Be not afraid.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 14.1.24

 1093

If I am a poet, then I can write

Anything I choose to - that's because

The words often don't matter; it's the sight

Of them spread out upon the page which does

All that is essential.  What? - you want

Meaning, purpose, some integrity

To support these words - which I know won't

Begin to hint at what I want to say

But ramble on - in strict poetic style -

To fill the fourteen lines this sonnet needs,

Regardless of my object to beguile

Or yours to understand creative needs?

            Sometimes I think I should have stuck to stamps

            Where quality arrives in serried ranks.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 13.1.24

 1092

The wings of the wind

For two long nights the wind has howled the house

 Rattling windows, drumming the kitchen roof

 Oozing through the cracks around the doors

 To chill our feet as we curl up

 With gin & tonic or repeats of Morse

And yet I'd rather be outside

 Blown away on a downland slope

 Caught for breath by the channel's surge

 Leaning against the ebb tide's force

For then my mind is scourged and cleansed

 Of all the doubts which clog and stall

 As I hear somewhere on the wind

 The wings of life beat with your call.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 12.1.24

 1091

          If this were a diary

          I would write down

Exactly what we did yesterday;

            Where we went

      Who went with us, and

What a splendid time we had.

        But it is a poem

 So I have to try to balance

      Form and meaning

        Style and metre;

     Ensuring all the time

   The impact is the same

      As if it were a diary.

    So why not write a diary?

After all, you never did like verse.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 11.1.2024

 1090

New Year 2012

No snow this year and winter seems to be

A waiting room before the new buds burst

To green and warm our gardens by the sea.

No snow this year.

On New Year's day, we join up for the first

Walk of the season with friends who willingly

Brave the cold, aware we've walked through worse

And knowing four brisk miles will find us ready

For lunch at The Queen's Head, our chapped lips pursed

And keen for wise and wassail; though sad to see

No snow this year.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 10.1.24

 1089

My local Co-op

Open on New Year's day is

Full of Easter Eggs.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 9.1.24

 1088

A week from Solstice

And at four o'clock the sky,

Though grey, is still light.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 9.1.24

 1087

The oyster beds on the Swale River

Are handpicked from the mud.

The pickers lift each one to check its size

Replacing those too small or damaged.

Each one is cared for, cosseted,

Until it reaches the table and the knife.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 8.1.24

 1086

When stuck 

But knowing I need to write -

If only to keep up the pretence

That I'm a writer -

I turn to the familiar rant

Against this blank page.

What a con.

As if I don't know

That I've nothing to say

And am simply

Filing space

Like a monkey give

A pencil.

Sally writes a diary

Religiously, every day,

And in a way

These poems serve the same end;

But if they are only for me

Why are they so difficult to write?

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 8.1.24

 1085

New Year

I have a list of things I need to do

            To fill the time from now till then

            But sense the moment will come, when

I've done them all, and fear what will ensue.

Can I find a new way to perceive

            The long gap between wake and sleep

            Which will not require me to keep

An hourly check on what I might achieve?

Can I just let time slip by;

            Ignore the email and the phone,

            Switch off the TV, be alone

Without constraint or need to question why;

Sit and read, perhaps listen to some Bach;

            Sit and write, for my own pleasure,

            Sit and think, as if this leisure

Were a gift, a chance for a new start.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 7.1.24

 1084

What am I going to be

When I grow up?

Maybe at sixty-six

It's too late to ask?

Brian Hick January 2012

 1083

The Dark

Mid-winter's day and Christmas have both passed;

Dull January's darkness marks each hour;

Our Solstice fire is cold, the punch won't last

Beyond this evening, and the wine's turned sour.

Outside the furry golfers are at work

Chipping frozen divots in search of meat

While starlings hang around the hedge or lurk

In hope of scraps which we're not moved to eat.

And here, where all could feel a Christmas joy,

A Yuletide promise shared with all the earth,

The festive lights do little but annoy

Those who would ignore a certain birth.

The darkness of the season may depress

But why so little risk of happiness?

Why so little risk of happiness

When money has brought more than most desire?

Surely our lives must have more finesse

Than simple greed; and do they not require

A sense that to be human is to strive

To go beyond the mundane and the course.

To raise our understanding while alive

Rather than trust in superstitious dross

And myths that put the emphasis on death

Rather than living this life to the full

With love and mercy shown in every breath

We utter regardless of self-centred will?

When I risk speaking with you face to face

A spark of promise lights for the human race.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 6.1.24

 1082

Class Christmas

The Neptune lounge allowed for chat

Around the edges as we sat

After dinner, with a brandy,

Which the waiters, always handy,

Brought to us in double measure

So that we had time to treasure

The entertainments of the night

Which left us feeling all was right.

While Hastings Angling Club might be

A cheerful place beside the sea

It's not a venue for a choir

Given acoustics that are dire

Showing up each flattened note

Or hesitation while you grope

Towards the line and wonder whether

You'll end in the same key together.

Christmas is a time for hope

So maybe next year there'll be scope

To bring the Class back to the form

From which this wandering group was born.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 5.1.24

 1081

If you are asked to 

Sing at Hastings & St Leonards

Angling Club - don't

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 5.1.24

 1080

Solstice Toast

Spirit of earth and sea

            Of air and fire;

Spirit of life to us

          All we desire.

Thanks for this bright Solstice glow

Thanks for this our Solstice meal

Thanks for seasons as they flow

Thanks for love to bind and heal.

Solstice & Wassail!

All Solstice and Wassail

Brian Hick December 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 4.1.24

 1079

What now? The years lie open and the days

That have been filled with work and purpose wait

As I stare blankly at this empty page.

What now?

Can I find a way to live which might abate

The stress which comes with leisure and the rage

Rising from fruitless empty hours, which Fate -

Oblivious to my longing to engage -

Has forced on me, as if she would berate

My impudence for living to this age?

What now?

Brian Hick December 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 3.1.24

 1078

I don't like snow - I suppose that I don't mind

The stuff on Christmas cards or on TV

But not the real wet and chilly kind.

I don't like snow.

There was a time when I'd happily be

Out hiking in a blizzard, where the wind

Whipped round my ears and I could hardly see

Because of ice on eyelids; but refined

By age and custom, I prefer the sea

In summer, downland springs and autumn's vines.

I don't like snow.

Brian Hick December 2011

©Sally Hick 2.1.24

 1077

A squally night took out the kitchen's power

And washed into the hall by the front door.

Down in Southend the rough nocturnal hours

Kept me awake with memories of the raw

Assault upon our house in eighty-seven.

By breakfast it's still raging and the sky

Above the bloated muddy banks is ashen

Waiting for this bitter wind to die.

But nothing lasts, and while I am eating,

The greyness dissipates and winter blue

Seeps up from the west until the sun

Breaks on the morning's channels as they run

Back along the estuary, leaving a few

Tired clouds, as token of a storm retreating.

Brian Hick December 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 2.1.23

 1076

Is earth the only

Place in this vast universe

Where love might exist?

Brian Hick December 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 1.1.24

 1075

This poem is not for you so if you find

You're reading it, please quietly desist.

I mean to hide this jewel from your mind.

This poem is not for you

Because it seems that when I persist

In publishing my poems to the wind

They're generally ignored or are dismissed

By critics with faint praise; so I've resigned

Myself to anonymity; my list

Of masterpieces hidden from all mankind.

This poem is not for you.

Brian Hick December 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 1.1.24