11

The Wanderer

Autumn's gold has rusted in the fog

And trees stand damply waiting for the frost

To strip away the few remaining leaves.

Quiet melancholy silences the cost

Of darkness, scattering the hopes of ease,

The distant memory of bright yule logs,

Shared feasts and friendly faces in the glow

Of fire or tallow flames, where warmth was more

Than sitting near the hearth.  I am alone -

As lifeless as the drift-wood on the shore -

No kin alive, no place to call my own,

No love survived to let my spirit grow.

          Where can I turn when all I had is lost

          And thought can only serve to count the cost?

Brian Hick 28.11.22

©copyright Sally Hick 28.11.22

 9

I pass him on my way

And sometimes give spare change;

But next day

He is there again.

We smile politely,

Knowing he's well trained

To ignore those

Who ignore him.

He used to have a dog

As neutral in its pose

As his

Even when a coin

Dropped near its nose.

But since last winter's ice

He slumps alone;

The faded blanket 

Loosely wrapped

Leaving just his head

To hint at life.

I could give so much more -

Do so much more

Of course he knows

And know I know.

So what is stopping me?

Brian Hick November 2010

©copyright Sally Hick 21.11.22