At the Garcon!  (Cardiff Bay)

The sun is dropping and within an hour

Will cast low shadows right across the bay.

We sit upon the terrace, and assay

The boats in rapid flurry to the pier.

A tourist in St David's hotel snaps

Us, though he wouldn't know we're here

Lost in the evening crowd, who sip a beer

Or sit as we, letting the time slip by

Between the courses of the pre-set meal

- Endive Belge et Supreme de Polet -

Idyllic as a holiday should be

But rarely is; a moment snatched, to heal

          The days when there is never time to say

          That in my heart, life always is this way.

Brian Hick September 2008

©copyright Sally Hick 16.9.22

 Down Line

The Down Line's always quieter than the up

A white cat sniffs along the wall before

It disappears amongst the scrubby trees.

A solitary school-boy, late and bored,

Frets that he is watched and cannot snatch

A quiet fag before he takes the train.

Occasional tourists for Ashford International

Await the two-coach shuttle, late again,

As usual, with no room to sit or place

Your cases.  As it leaves the unseen drone

Proudly proclaims the train will soon be here.

Stillness - and the cat slinks out alone

          Along the wall towards Warrior Square;

          A cigarette's dull haze melts in the air.

Brian Hick September 2008

©copyright Sally Hick 14.9.22

 Up line (Morning Pam)

The ticket office is closed and the machine

Is out of order. No one is on hand

To ask, although the unseen voice, obscene

In cheery tones, warns - no, it commands -

We have a valid ticket or risk a fine.

Two minutes before the Cannon Street is due

The usual suspects muster into line

Careful to avoid commuters who

Insist on constant verbal diarrhoea.

I take the second carriage which I know

From long experience is the silent car

For readers, laptops and the sleeping foe.

          On time as usual, I take my usual seat,

          And before we get to Battle, am asleep.

Brian Hick September 2008

©copyright Sally Hick 12.9.22

 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

 Strand

This must be the best time of year.

           The beach huts are all locked, the schools are back,

           A solitary walker with her dogs

Pads quietly along the water's edge.

The sky mocks at the date, its radiant blue

           Willing me to think it is July

           Rather than late September, for the sea

Is calm, almost to indolence, each wave

Hardly finding the energy to break

           And trickle over pebbles as it basks

          Soaking up the silence of the day

As it has done, since the world began.

Brian HIck autumn 2009

©copyright Sally HIck 7.9.22

Monday Diary

Between me and the trees a swarm of gnats

Idle their time before the sun is gone.

 This time tomorrow, if the warmth survives,

Another cloud may wander into view

But not the same, for death comes all too soon

For gnats and mayflies, living on the wing.

My life, at sixty-four, is closing in

And even if I have another score

Or more, I know that every hour I live

Simply brings me closer to the point

When time, however I encompass it,

Will simply stop and I will cease to be.

          Death may worry some, as it grows near,

          But - snuffed out like a gnat - what's there to fear?

Brian Hick autumn 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 5.9.22

 Waiting

I sit and wait for your return -

If only that were all,

For thoughts which are no use to us

Divert my mind, so all

The time I could anticipate

Seeing you again

Is frittered into mindless games

Of who and why and when.

Even simple meditation

Seems to just dissolve

Re-running minor problems

Which gain a strangle-hold

While all the time I want to be

Cut off from futile chatter

To ensure that when we meet

Nothing else will matter.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 2.9.22