1473

Today I am a

Real commuter with coffee

And croissant in hand.

Brian Hick June 2015

©copyright Sally Hick 12.6.26

 1454

Firle 2 5 15

Rain clouds drift across the beacon's head

Greying the damp spring fields, softening skies

As if muslin veils enshroud the Downs

Keeping them snug within a gentle void.

The dipoles and the ridge path where we walk

Have disappeared and even closer to

Swallows swoop then vanish from my sight,

Sheep rest, blurred against the misted hedge.

The train is quiet, a distant mobile call

Alone breaking the rhythm of the wheels.

Empty stations pass unnoticed till

The downs are gone and placid to the south

The sea yawns as the evening closes in.

Brian Hick 2.5.15

©copyright Sally Hick 21.4.26

 1440

Frost on the fields

A heron lifts and glides

Silent

Silhouetted

A dark gash

Glimpsed against

Pale morning sun.

Two rabbits run

Along the hedge.

A pheasant stands

Perplexed, unmoving.

Near the railway line

Snowdrops and crocuses

Crouch

As if afraid

Their colour will confuse.

Commuters, closeted behind

Their headphones

Heedless

Unaware

That Spring

Is on the move.

Brian Hick March 2015

©copyright Sally Hick 18.3.26

 1339

The mud-splashed windows of the Hastings train,

Trundling down through Robertsbridge and Battle,

Can't expunge the fierceness of the sun

Though creeping darkness oozes from the sea

To lurk behind the deepening silhouette

Of beech trees, flat and stark, along the ridge.

Short tunnels and dank cuts block out

The waning rays, and every passing bridge

Snaps shut the lingering image of the woods

Made hazy, as each fast dissolving copse,

Unfocused, washed out, merges into one,

All colour faded to amorphous grey.

The landscape disappears into night

And we must wait for the return of light.

Brian Hick February 2014

©copyright Sally Hick 5.3.25

 938

Tuesday morning back to work

No coffee on the train;

The sun still shines, the wind is cold,

But cannot stir my brain

Which rests somewhere beside the sea

Or near St John's, Smith Square,

Basking in the Easter heat-

Anywhere but here.

There are not many on the train,

Some phones have started ringing;

Yet when we get to Tunbridge Wells

Most round me are snoozing.

The underground at Canon Street

Is closed in all directions

So I must walk to Monumnet

Thus missing my connection

To Wickford, but at least this train

Is running after Easter;

Be thankful for small mercies, sir,

It's not quite a disaster.

Brian Hick April 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 17.5.23

 906

Three deaf people next

To me on train; the air

Is filled with laughter.

Brian Hick March 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 7.3.23

 901

Even though I'm on the early train

It's well past dawn so no sign of the fox

Or vixen to cheer me, just the same

Commuters, whose sour faces mock

Spring's imminence... but that was yesterday

And those few lines were all I'd time to write

Before the fog  of routine seeped its way

Into my mind and subdued all that might

Have served to make this poem worth your time

Rather than another morbid rant

Against a world where work is made the prime

Consideration, and art is naught but Kant.

          How easy it would be if we could live,

          Without the need to earn, and freely give.

Brian Hick February 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 22.2.23

 899

7.28

The fog is clearing over Warrior Square

As the seven-twenty-eight slides into view,

On time today; a restless pair

Of blackbirds, undeterred, peck at the few

Damp twigs scattered on the down-side bank.

The train is silent until Robertsbridge

Where school-boys with their mobile phones and lank

Hair call out to each other across the carriage

But only to go as far as Tonbridge Wells

Whence peace returns right through to Canon Street,

With nothing save announcements or the swell

Of distant conversations to compete.

          Oh that every journey were this calm

          Oozing contemplation's subtle balm.

Brian Hick February 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 15.2.23

 898

7.20

A fox,upon the bank above the platform,

Padding unconcerned along the path

Unseen by the commuters waiting for their train;

And then a second, appearing through the hedge.

They meet, exchange a friendly look in greeting,

Then amble off in opposite directions.

When I arrived they were not there

And seconds later the bank above the platform

Was empty, as it has been these last weeks,

But I sensed in that brief and casual meeting

That spring might at last be on its way.

Brian Hick Feb 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 11.2.22

881

January

Individual leaves hang like dead men

So many corpses from an autumn cull

Their weight, lightly suspended from the boughs

Await the final drop into the pool

          Of mud and mucus, melted where it lies.

Across grey swathes of marshland, morning mists

Ooze and bite the tired commuters' ears

Drifting back to work after a week

Of too much drink, no exercise and fears -

          In spite of all the crackers and mince pies -

That weeks now wait inert before the sky

Will welcome them with light as they leave home

And early morning warmth will creep down roads

Now damp, silent and endless before dawn

          Awaiting their salvation from the skies.

Brian Hick January 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 2.1.23 

 860

Simon Fanshwa's on the train

No hope of work today

For he is on his mobile phone

And needs us all to pay

Attention to his business deals

And what he has to say.

Brian Hick November 2010

©copyright Sally Hick 7.12.22

 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

 5

Yes, back to normal;

The internet is working

And the phone's okay.

6

How did I forget

'Good Morning Pam?' No hope of

Reading this morning.

Brian Hick November 2010

©copyright Sally Hick 16.11.22

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

 Fatality at St John's

Half an hour late at Tunbridge Wells

          Doors won't open, breaks are stuck

          And I feel I've run out of luck

Before I've reached the morning bell.

Coming home, via London Bridge

          'Severe delays' on platform five

          But I at least am still alive

And have no cause to fume or judge

While along the platform discontent

          Rumbles from commuters who

          Do not know what they can do

To get back home to deepest Kent.

Down at St Johns, by platform one

          A family's guilt, for they out live

          The tattered corpse which cannot give

Them answer, now that he is gone,

To all the questions, raging round

          From memories of ugly words,

          Slamming doors and jangling chords

Of arguments, like unhealed wounds.

The pain which he tried to avoid

          Has been passed back to those who cared

          Or could have done, had he been spared

But now can only sense the void.

I read of death on every page,

          And every day another war

          But single loss affects me more

Than genocide or tyrant's rage.

For we know loss is not the end

          And though I never knew his name

          His death goes through me just the same

As if he were my closest friend.

Brian Hick

©copyright Sally Hick 17.10.22

 Wednesday

Wednesday, and it's now almost five days

Since I've had time to contemplate some verse

But travelling to Enfield on the train

I can make time for thinking and reverse

The headlong rush which going up by car

Necessitates, for, while the music helps

To calm the jangling stress, there is no space

For language to unfold and write itself.

So here I am, pen poised and coffee poured

The carriage silent and the summer heat

An English Idyll coaxing me to spill

My locked up feelings over this blank page

          However, should normality ensue,

          I'm liable to doze off 'til Waterloo.

Brian Hick

©copyright Sally Hick 12.10.22

 Lavender

Glanced from the window of my evening train

Near Sevenoaks, the lavender's in bloom

And suddenly I am a boy again

Dancing with Mrs Bunton to a tune

I now forget but pop in fifty-eight

When we were all on holiday in Devon.

The waft of lavender almost knocks me out

As, hardly reaching to her Edwardian bosom

My innocent boyhood reels from the sweet spray

Sprinkled on hankies from the pixie pair

Bought as a souvenir earlier that day

While on the tour to Ilfracombe and Beer.

          Sensuous memories; far beyond my ken,

          For I am older now than she was then.

Brian Hick 

©copyright Sally Hick 11.10.22

 Down Line

The Down Line's always quieter than the up

A white cat sniffs along the wall before

It disappears amongst the scrubby trees.

A solitary school-boy, late and bored,

Frets that he is watched and cannot snatch

A quiet fag before he takes the train.

Occasional tourists for Ashford International

Await the two-coach shuttle, late again,

As usual, with no room to sit or place

Your cases.  As it leaves the unseen drone

Proudly proclaims the train will soon be here.

Stillness - and the cat slinks out alone

          Along the wall towards Warrior Square;

          A cigarette's dull haze melts in the air.

Brian Hick September 2008

©copyright Sally Hick 14.9.22

 Up line (Morning Pam)

The ticket office is closed and the machine

Is out of order. No one is on hand

To ask, although the unseen voice, obscene

In cheery tones, warns - no, it commands -

We have a valid ticket or risk a fine.

Two minutes before the Cannon Street is due

The usual suspects muster into line

Careful to avoid commuters who

Insist on constant verbal diarrhoea.

I take the second carriage which I know

From long experience is the silent car

For readers, laptops and the sleeping foe.

          On time as usual, I take my usual seat,

          And before we get to Battle, am asleep.

Brian Hick September 2008

©copyright Sally Hick 12.9.22

 Brimsdown

The weeping willow by the station house

Droops towards the level crossing gates;

Workmen boarding up the waiting room

Roll on the matt grey while he waits

The usual late arrival from the East.

The palette-works behind the down line clank

Against the latent blur of Radio One

Though he's oblivious as his earphones blank

Reality, white Metro keeps his mind

On Harry Potter, Horoscopes and Sport -

Anything but sense what's really there

At half-past seven, before the day was wrought

          Its dullness on a soul already lost

          To all the brightness life at him has tossed.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 8.7.22