Normal

'Oh yes,' I said, 'I'm getting back to normal.

Up at the usual time and off to work;

More than enough to keep me out of trouble;

Concentrate the mind, no time to shirk.'

And so I try to still the guilty wheel

Returning me each day to the point where,

Six months ago, normal used to mean

Just what it said, and he was there

In his usual place before the tele

Sounding off at all the goings on

At the Oxfam shop or in the papers

Setting the world to rights.  Oh how I long

           To sit in boredom listening to his voice

           But 'normal' now, I do not have a choice.

Brian Hick July 09

©copyright Sally Hick 1.7.22

 (coping with grief)

It's over, and I am here again

Sitting, with my coffee and the birds

Disinterested as ever, while the words

That have been beating in my brain

For ten days now are gently on the ebb.

Commuting up to London Bridge that thrust

Of returning daily life and the crush

Of rush our tubes is bliss, as routine's web

Takes over and my mind can err,

Relaxing in the dullness of the task

A stress which I can understand and ask

No more than that it simply will be there

          Rather the pressure that comes from the boss

          Than time to ruminate upon my loss.

Brian Hick 30.6.09

©copyright Sally HIck 1.7.22

 The following four poems are expressions of grief after the death of Brian's father.

Garsington

She said she liked the colour of the car;

He joked my waistcoat was a nicer hue;

We passed pleasantries then went our own ways

And all the time, of course, they never knew

That half my mind was locked back in Redhill

And a chapel room, where he has lain

For two days now, awaiting Monday's hearse.

When last I sat upon his counter-pain

And held his hand, there was a sort of link

But now I stand embarrased by the lack

Of ritual response or mumbled prayer

Which might take off the edge of death's cold fact.

          It's cliched that we die alone, but here

          My loneliness seems far too much to bear.

Brain Hick 23.6.09

©copyright Sally Hick 17.6.22

 Waiting

For weeks we waited for the end to come

And now I wait for others to arrive

Before his funeral is finally begun

And our lives, put on hold, can be revived.

Oblivious birds squawk in the rambling rose

And cats prowl off along the garden sides

While I try to read or to compose

In this blank space between turning tides

Oh but I'd rather be anywhere but here -

Gerontius-like I yearn to be away

Cradled gently in some loving arm

Which will make all things well and bring a balm

To touch my forehead, kiss my cheek and say

That all is well, and dry my unwished tear.

Brian Hick 29.6.09

©copyright Sally Hick 17.6.22

 A hooded crow sat idly on the pump

A blur of rabbits drifting by the hedge

A barn owl silhouetted on a stump;

Why are they alive when he is dead?

Brian Hick June 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 17.6.22

Last summer on a Mediterranean cruise

I read Tennyson's out-pouring for his friend

Not realising that depression then

Was nothing to this knife-wound of The End.

Shopping in Oxford, doing the weekend quiz;

A new dress-shirt, a new bow-tie, like his,

Cannot still the ache within my heart

Which, with all I have, keeps me apart

As if his death had cast my mind adrift

Into a mirror world where everything

Was normal, yet a momentary shift

Can isolate me in a fog of grief.

          I know that this will pass but until then

          Consciousness can not help crying When?

Brian Hick June 2009

 ASK again

The sun is in my eyes but I don't care

I'll sit here, until it moves away

And I am in the shade, and its decay

Says more about the world than I might dare.

I only came to eat yet in this time

Of enexpected quiet I have found

Thoughts ignored, or possibly profound,

Surfacing at last, now that I'm 

Calm and focussed - no, quite the reverse -

Bothered into stillness by the thrash

Of recent memory, querulous and brash,

Which will not let me contemplate the worse.

          The news and weather want me to give in

          But something, deep inside, says I can win.

Brian Hick May 2009

©copyright Sally Hick May 2022

 Drift

Until December he had seemed ok;

Aging yes, but mind alert and bright

Even if his conversation raced

Inevitably to Oxfam and a foray

Against RMH and his pension rights,

With letters of complaint - all double spaced.

Then, almost before we knew, he'd slipped away

Into a world where even when he spoke

It wasn't to us, or for us to hear.

He tapped out endless labels on his tray

Or sang songs from his childhood, which provoked

Quiet tears, though he was not aware.

I held his hand and hoped that he might know;

We spoke and hoped that he would understand,

But realised in those few moments when

He was himself, he had no memory

Of who was there or what was said to him.

And so it drifts, like childhood's rest returning

Where sleep and wake are equally untrue.

In hospital once more, linked to the drips

Which keep his body going, if not his mind,

He talks of trainig for the RAF,

Saying we've passed, but he is not yet fit

To be a pilot; then for a little time

Sleep flies him out, while we wait on, bereft.

Twenty years ago I thought I'd known

Something of him, andd had felt quite close.

Even if rarely seen, we seemed to share

Some sense that he and I, unspoken, had grown

To value who we were, but now the loose

Connective has been lost, and all I do is stare.

Down at the tight fit sheets upon his bed,

The pulsing drips and last week's wilting flowers,

Snatched conversations, nurses by the door,

Realising, as he turns his head

Towards the wall, no matter how many hours

I stay with him, I could not miss him more.

Brian Hick May 2009

©copyright Sally Hick May 2022 

Because we love

The sombre suites and quiet voices greet

The friends and family member we've not seen

For many years, and would not now have been

Together, but that he had died last week.

Gentle recollections of a man-

His endless jokes, his warmth, his quiet care-

Permeate the church, till I'm aware

That something has surpassed the grief, which can

Seem all pervasive, to overcome the tears

Which have been shed and will be shed again

For all who sit here, though we know not when

That day will come, in the ensuing years.

             For Love transcendent, close as hand in glove,

            Knows Grief only exists because we love. 

Brian Hick 28.11.08

©copyright S Hick December 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