Going Home
The train is packed - the last day of the hols -
A family returns to its estate
In Peckham, and tired children wait
Eking out time with MP3s and dolls.
South London accents swim across the aisles
Excitement tempered by the thought of school
Next week, for nobody can fool
These returnees to keep their summer smiles.
A last view of the sea, a final wave
To cows and sheep before the suburbs close
Upon them and a sudden strillness shows
They're nearly home; now they must be brave
Till they can come to Hastings once again
But, oh, the months of dullness until then!
Brian Hick September 2009
©copyright Sally Hick 29.8.22
The King of Instraments
I suppose that he was someone's pride and joy
But now, squat and abandoned, he waits
The demolition crew, unless the fates
Can find a buyer, eager for a toy.
Sixty years disinterest and neglect
Have gradually reduced his usefulness
And decorators with their uncleared mess
Have choked his pipes and left his chests bedecked
With rubble, dust, dead pigeons and the rest.
Pedal draw-stops don't, and on his Swell
The bottom octave does not speak at all
But then, who cares to hear him at his best?
A monarch needs a Kingdom to inspire
And if he can't - what use the Angelic Choir?
Brian Hick Summer 2009
©copyright Sally Hick 26.8.22
Bank Holiday - musings
I wanted to stay in and do some work
- not that I had any work to do -
But the sea was calling me to go
And simply be, whether or not I wrote.
Stripped to the waist, he stands upon the groin
Posed until the moment when he flips
Into the air and lands, to laughs and quips
From those who watch, but do not join.
Indulge each moment for we never know
When it will simply be too late
To gratify each other and the wait
May be too long for love to gently grow.
I took some pics while walking by the sea
And some of them were good, but when I came
To download them and give each one a name
I pressed delete - and so they ceased to be.
Brian Hick summer 2009
©copyright Sally Hick 24.8.22
Writer's block
As many writers seem to set aside
Certain hours each day for quiet times
To concentrate on turning out their rhymes
Or chapters for a novel, I decide
That I will do so too, and yesterday
I went into the woods, sat on a bench,
And started writing, hoping to retrench
The fallow hours that currently hold sway
Forming verses with consummate ease
While I sit surrounded by the trees
Which mark the progress of this woodland Ride
Between Bohemia Road and Shoredean's side.
It didn't work; the Muse was still in bed
So I went home and cut the grass instead.
Brian Hick August 2009
©copyright Sally Hick 22.8.22
Summer's End
During the night a flower pot was up-turned.
We saw it from the windo but the rain
Gusted by the wind, kept us indoors
Until mid-morning, when I ventured out
To see if our badgers had returned.
No sign of them, but, despite the warmth
Oozing from the late August sun,
The air had turned autumnal and the leaves
Were blustering above me, shutting out
The distant whine of gulls - and starlings, who
Sat clustered on the chimney-pots before
They swirled and scattered to the south once more.
Brian Hick August 2009
©copyright Sally Hick 19.8.22
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
