Shropshire Hills

The Wrexham and Shrewsbury Line

After the Hastings run and underground

The Wrexham train is manna to the soul.

A gentle easing back, with no more sound

Than coffee cups - real china - and the goal

Of self indulged enjoyment for three hours

Until we get to Shrewsbury - of course

Lunch is served, with beef that overpowers

The senses with its whiskey & pepper sauce

And though we must forgo the chocolate truffle

- which did not arrive in time today -

An apple Danish rectifies the ruffle

We might have felt before we doze away.

          All too soon we have to leave the train

          But be assured - we will be back again.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 29.7.22

We share a taxi out past Meole Brace

With a lady from South Africa

Before the Shropshire Hills start to embrace

Our view, and even from inside the car

They smile a welcome home.  Oh, is it just

A sentimental quirk, despite years away

I feel as much at one here as the dust

On any path along the South Downs Way?

The hotel has seen better days but strives

To match the glory of its place among

The woods and outcrops of the steep hillsides

Convincing us that nothing can be wrong.

From our room the Longmynd's just in sight

But that's for tomorrow - so for now, goodnight.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally HIck 29.7.22

 Why he wrote

I know that they do not wish to be rude

But oh how often have I heard them say

'I don't like poetry', as if that way

They could shrug off their own crude

Assessment of the language which they use

Day after day as practical, objective

And remote from metaphor, expletive,

Emotional outporing or abuse.

I don't write verse to gain some poets' prize

Or flatter with the beauty of a thought;

I write this way because I have not choice

Not knowing wht will come until the voice,

Which only lives once on the page, was wrought

A simple verse that's worthy of your eyes.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 22.7.22

 Failed Again

When I came to write about our visit

Strolling yesterday to see the view

Across the lakes with Hannah, mum and you,

I thought it would be easy to envisage

The summer afternoon, the cricket pitch

Empty golf links and the occasional flash

Of butterfly or rabbit, but the hash

I've made so far makes me keen to ditch

This effort, after all there's hardly time

To wind this up before we're on our way

To Shropshire for a break of a few days

Walking round Church Stretton - to Llanfairwaterdine?

          Thankfully this poem - bland and trite -

          Will never get beyond your casual sight.

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 22.7.22 (sorry B)

 Prom 12

The Planets from Proms on the TV

Sir Charles Mackerras conducting in full view

As I'd pressed the red button and could see

Every phrase and nuance as it flew

From his fingertips into the hall

Enticing the music to ensue.

Fifty years ago we stood to hear

Sir Malcolm Sargent and the BBC SO

Working their way through the English Prom

With Paul Tortelier and the Elgar Cello

Concert, In the South or more,

Perhaps, the Introduction and Allegro.

          The music is the same; I wonder why

          If it doesn't change, oh, why do I?

Brian Hick 25.7.09

©copyright Sally Hick 22.7.22 

 On hearing yet another Unitarian Sermon

Such patronising sanctimonious twaddle will not do.

It's not just that Richard Dawkins is correct, it's more - Oh who

Will stand up to the gross semantic foggy fields thay sway

With elephantine language that knows it must have its way

And insist that its 'religion' with its liberal ideas

Is different from conservative beliefs which still adhere

To otherness and God-ness outside of all that is,

As if our quantum theory allows for this abyss,

Regurgitating of a mis-thought botch of naff beliefs

As if the Field theory can contain their god; good grief

Can't they see that we need to abandon all this chaff -

Or maybe we should just lie back and give ourselves a laugh?

Brian Hick 19.7.09

©copyright Sally Hick 16.7.22

 Beach Bar-B-Q when middle aged.

We met at four o'clock

Pegged out the wind break

Circled the garden chairs

Around the table with its

Box of wine and lemonade

Waiting for the fire to die back.

Pork and onion skewers,

Organic burgers, sausages

All carefully cooked

With not a ritual offering in sight.

We sit in accustomed places

Passing our usual remarks

Catching up on casual news

Of children and grand-children far away.

Some late arrivals cause a minor stir

But once they are seated

Calm returns once more.

And before twilight

Two by two they leave

Until only five of us remain

To clear away the plates

Pack up the wind break

Put away the chairs.

Brian Hick 20.7.09

©copyright Sally Hick 16.7.22

 It's weeks since we have walked upon the Downs

And there's more work to do before we can

Take the train to Shrewsbury for a break

To wander on the Long Mynd and the span

Of Wenlock Edge, Caer Caradoc and the hills

Which softly fold around  Church Stretton's streams.

As a boy I took the bus from town

To spend Good Fridays, lulled by Easter dreams,

Along the Cardingmill with family friends

Whose names have long faded from my memory

- David, our Aunt Dolly, and the rest -

Exposed to the expanse of my forgettery.

          This poem needs an open end, for how,

          Half a century on, will they seem now?

Brian Hick 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 8.7.22