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Christmas Day

It's eight o'clock

And Santa left the toys while George and Henry slept,

Although they swore they'd stay awake to see him.

Being boys who think that he is real,

But need more Proof

To bolster up the simple joys of ripping open presents.

And the poor?

Across a fragile world the day arrives,

The same as any other,

Without hope of food or sanitation,

Where the flies stand more chance of survival,

And the children grope through what has been discarded from our lives

To find the fragments that might mean you cope.

Thank you that George and Henry will not need

To sieve through rubbish so that they can feed;

But what of me, who sees the fractured earth

And yearns to give creation its true worth?

Brian Hick December 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 30.12.24

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Workhouse

We had a home but then I lost my job

And nowhere hereabouts to find more work.

With nothing saved and no desire to rob

I tried to make ends meet, and did not shirk

The meanest task or lowliest of toil;

But nothing came, and so we had to go

Into the Workhouse.  Who but would recoil

At all the human misery on show?

Debased, reviled, no sense of concern,

Compassion, warmth; for though we are poor

We have feelings, when separated, yearn

For love that is denied us by the law.

          Why does the church teach that all are one

          Then separate me from my wife and son?

Brian Hick May 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 22.5.23