1427

Smile the sun is up, the train's on time,

I've coffee and a Kit-Kat as I sit

Writing this - so everything is fine.

Smile!

Smell the bacon rolls, the benefits

Of service at my seat or the sublime

Delights of doing nothing as befits

An OAP - not of course that I'm

The kind to sit around when I've the wit

To grasp each moment and to make it mine.

Smile!

Brian Hick February 2015

©Sally Hick 13.2.26

 1197

The Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Railway

In the August sun.

Look the guard's waving his flag,

Oh, won't this be fun!

An over-large American,

Concerned for her small hound,

Talks loudly all the way down to

New Romney, and the sound

Of her Primary Teacher's voice

Drowns out the hiss of seam;

And the lurking wine dark sea,

Which can just be seen

Between the houses on the coast

From Hythe to Dungerness,

Is ignored, in favour of

Her pooch's panting breath.

The train speeds up, the kids look out

To wave at all who stand

As we flash by, at walking speed,

Along to Romney Sands

Then through the tunnel to arrive

At our destination

For souvenirs and lunch perhaps

Brought at New Romney Station.

Behold the men who stand around

Admiring the Engineer

Who tinkers with the wheels and valves

Oiling here and there

While the mums sort out the kids,

Those bouncing for the loo

From those demanding an ice cream

Or something else to do -

'Cos if you're twelve, you're far above

All these childish things,

A family outing on the train's

Like - just - embarrassing.

But now it's time to take the train

Back along the line

Squashed with other visitors

All having a great time.

The whistle blows, we're nearly there,

Steaming to the station.

Bye ye' all. I hope you have

A really great vacation!

We wander back towards the car,

Left parked in the sun,

Wishing it were yesterday, for

The holidays are now done,

And even if the memory

Of days like this may last

All too soon they will become

Just smoke, circling the past.

Brian Hick August 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 10.7.24

 899

7.28

The fog is clearing over Warrior Square

As the seven-twenty-eight slides into view,

On time today; a restless pair

Of blackbirds, undeterred, peck at the few

Damp twigs scattered on the down-side bank.

The train is silent until Robertsbridge

Where school-boys with their mobile phones and lank

Hair call out to each other across the carriage

But only to go as far as Tonbridge Wells

Whence peace returns right through to Canon Street,

With nothing save announcements or the swell

Of distant conversations to compete.

          Oh that every journey were this calm

          Oozing contemplation's subtle balm.

Brian Hick February 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 15.2.23

 Train to Cardiff - and back

Is lunch the ultimate enemy of art?

I'd hoped to write something while at ease,

But bagels - the smoked salmon & cream cheese -

With a chilled Sauvignon Blanc to start

Before the chocolate flapjacks - and the need

To catch up with the papers - all conspired

To make me doze away the thoughts inspired

By Cardiff Bay and a new Traviata.

Sunday - and I've only done eight lines;

And even then the last one doesn't rhyme.

The Quiet Carriage ought to aid my mind

But morning coffee and papers fill my time

          Till suddenly we're back at Paddington

          And all that carefully planned time - has gone!

Brian Hick autumn 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 9.9.22

 

814

 

Too early for breakfast

Two hours on the train

For a meeting in London –

Which explains why I came –

But we’re finally at Marylebone,

Where I can obtain

A coffee and croissant

To wake up my brain.

 

815

 

Do you think

Seamus Heaney

Writes endless rubbish

Before he ends up

With a worthwhile poem?

 

816

 

On the way to London

The carriage is silent;

I read the paper.

 

On the way back to Stratford

They’re all on their mobiles;

So no chance to write.

 

I should have known better.

 

Brian Hick September 2010

©copyright 2021 S Hick

 

813

 

On the train … again

 

I would fain

A drink obtain

But all in vain

For the Brighton train

With sneered disdain

For my delicate brain

Tells me I must refrain

From hopes to gain

Spirits to inflame

A soul which has lain

Inert, in the main,

Since breakfast in Staines

With coffee so hot that it

Scolds and it maims;

But, like the Jains,

I must not complain

(Though we British have slain

Many thousands who came)

We know it’s in vain

To attempt to complain

As we endure the pain –

Of a trolley-less train!

 

Brian Hick September 2010

©copyright 2021 S Hick