1472

How much do I love you?

             No, not  you, the Divine

But those much closer to me

             My own kith and kin.

How much do I love you?

             Let me show the way

Not in high-flown language

             But the everyday

Where words are not the only

             Way to let you know

All you've ever meant to me

             Watching as you grow

From child to ratty teenager

             From youth to adulthood

Caring for you day by day

             Regardless of your mood.

For love is not a flowering

Of sentimental verse

A birthday card with bunny rabbits

Pussy cats - or worse -

But midnight listening on the stairs

             A waiting by the door

When you were sick or out with friends

             Fearing the worse before

You recover or breeze in

             Oblivious to me

Shoot up the stairs, without a word,

             Or make a cup of tea.

And all the time the love that binds

             Us to one another

Has hidden in the crevices

             Of sister, mother, brother.

Our reservation at excess

             Refusal to emote

May seem off-hand to the world

             Uncaring or remote,

But we know what we really feel

             Deep within our heart

For love that does not need to shout,

             Enduring from the start,

Will far outlast the extrovert

             The banner high unfurled;

For love that does not flaunt itself

             Has overcome the world.

Brian Hick June 2015

©Sally Hick 8.6.26

 To Martin

'Martin', she said and I had always thought

Of you as William, presumably because

That was my granddad's name, and it was

The first that came to mind, as if it ought

To have ancestral links even though

Neither of us have.  In the genealogical groups

That Dad had found, back to our Yorkshire roots

Before the Armada, not a single Tony

Or a Brian, and then, out of the blue

Your name appeared, unlinked to any other

In our past, but suddenly I've a brother

- Long thought lost - the one I never knew.

          How strange that after sixty years, you are more

          Real to me today than ever before.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 8.7.22

 I've hung the family photos in the hall

And started to sort out those that remain;

A jumbled stack, unposed and often blurred,

The sort that get discarded, yet retain

A sense of life being lived, one which insists

On shooting past the confines of the frame

To get on with business of the day

-Like moths escaping from a candle flame.

Their stubborn wildness, cut off heads and feet,

Silent laughter, poked out tongues, recalim

A life the image tries to kill, and stirs

A joy the family set-piece can't retain.

            Momento mori photographs may seem

            But some escape to fill the gaps between.

Brian Hick

©copyright Sally Hick 22.4.22

 Visiting Grand-Children - Day 2

Henry's playing football, George is doing a show

While we take turns to watch them and the clock, which seems dead slow,

So out we go to Clambers to burn off the excess

Of energy, and leave our home to settle to the mess

Of jigsaws, trains and bedtime bears; of Thomas and Ben Ten

Hoping that when we come back it's time for bed again;

But of course it isn't and they're hungry even though

They'd chips and crisps and fruit-shoots to make their tummies glow.

A little girl is trying to bash Henry while he climbs

Into a mesh of balls and nets to bounce away the time

And George has made a little friend who shares a love of cars -

They've found they can go down the slide on them, although it jars

Against the edge and topples them in heaps upon the floor

But being three they giggle, jump back on and go for more,

While we sit on the couches, spread against the wall in twos

Like every other parent here just longing for the news

That it's time for In the Night Garden and so we ought to leave

Before they all get second wind and we lose the will to live.

Brian Hick December 29th 2009

©copyright Sally Hick December 2021

 Winter Walk

The winter morning's mist dampens our way

And shuts off all the view across the heath.

A solitary tree atop a ridge

Startles, its charcoal pencilled lines

Etched across a water-colour blur

As we drift away from Battle Hill.

Claggy footpaths topped with rotting oak

And birch, slow us down, giving time

To contemplate the days that lie ahead;

Solstice celebrations with a clutch

Of children and grand-children, all enthused

At simply being together for a change.

            By afternoon the sun is bright and clear

            And promises a safe end to our year.

Brian Hick December 2009

©copyright S Hick 2021

How many prawns die a natural death?

'How many prawns die a natural death?' he quipped;

Since when our meals have never been the same,

Not that we would ever want to blame

John for the question, but even as it tripped

So lightly off his tongue, it had become

The corner-stone of our lunchtime debate.

Any time we start to get irate

Or quarrel, there is bound to be someone

Who'll question the iconic prawns, to ease

The torrents of Foucault or Thomas Paine

And bring us gently down to earth again

Before we turn to pudding or the cheese,

   How strange to think that in the death of prawns

   Our quirky family unity was born.

(with thanks to John Hubbard)

Brian Hick 25.11.08

©copyright S Hick November 2021 

 

Written in memoriam of Brian’s late father John Henry Hick

762

 

You are Gone; and it’s almost a year

Since we stood mute, not knowing what to say,

Where grief transmuted all that would be clear,

For You are Gone.

 

But life has rumbled on and day by day

Though we cannot forget the pain and fear

We felt those final weeks, the gentler play

 

Of memory has eased the scars that seer,

Bringing back your smile, your quiet way,

To strengthen us as we stand waiting here

For You are Gone.

 

 

763

What’s money for!

 

What’s money for! You said, knowing that we

Were not exactly rich, but had enough

To splash out on our annual holiday.

What’s money for!

 

Though you were always careful with the stuff

It wasn’t cash that took us on a spree

But your delight to have more than enough

 

Rather than spoil she ship for the odd ha’penny

Which would not be missed, if things got tough,

When we could ride on our banked memory.

What’s money for!

 

Brian Hick

June 2010

©copyright S Hick 2021