After Arcadia

If, in the end, it all comes down to number

And nothing is, which is not simply maths,

What is the point of contemplating beauty

Or challenging the eye or ear with paths

That lead me nowhere but to introspection,

Subjective reflex on what is percieved

Balanced against genetic intuition

And bias from my parents, now concieved

As Truth, when in reality it's nothing

But affectation and synaptic links

Twinkling in the darkness of my brains

Fooling me that it actually thinks

          When all the time it's no more replete

          Than ticking neutrons gradually losing heat.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 17.8.22

 1651

The horizon looked as if a child had drawn

A thick blue line across a pale page

Leaving the sky and all the sea below

Like some vast mirror, so I could hardly gage

Which was which until, almost unseen,

The brown sails of a Thames Barge caught my eye

Cutting slowly towards Beachy Head

Its silent form securing sea and sky,

As if the chaos of the universe

Could be resolved by one simplistic sight,

A tiny speck to confirm up and down

And make me realise that I was right.

             If only all the problems that confuse

            Could be absolved by such a simple ruse.