Patrick Osada


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Here's a selection of my poems for JULY

I update this website at the start of each month with a fresh selection of my poetry.      

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(Along the River Tresillian)
The stillness of this place is quite profound
when water’s slack beyond the wooden quay,
just wind and silence are the only sounds.

A heron stands inert as if becalmed,
no curlew’s song or gulls’ cacophony —
the stillness of this place is quite profound.

Across the mudflats egrets can be found,
white dots in clusters perched in Merther’s trees;
here wind and silence are the only sounds.

Close by the path first blackberries abound —
too firm for sweetness – flowers buzz with bees;
the stillness of this place is quite profound.

The smell of woodsmoke hangs above the ground —
near the well they’re burning scrub and ivy;
yet wind and silence are the only sounds.

This spot is where tranquillity is found
with mind and nature joined in harmony;
the stillness of this place is quite profound
when wind and silence are the only sounds.        


On the quiet road above it all,
the only sound is birdsong and slow bees;
from the lychgate, where the swallows nest each year,
you look down on the church framed by its trees.

Here lichen covered headstones flank the path,
with Humfrey’s texts, * laid out on blocks of stone
(quotations to inspire whilst climbing up —
but missed by visitants on their way down).

As legend has it, Joseph came ashore
for tin and souls and here began his search;
but the magic of this place is in the eye:
exotic plants surround this creek-side church.

When the tide is full – creek mirrors sky,
reflecting Celtic cross, the trees and church,
cedars, walnut, cypress are all there,
exotic tree ferns, buzzing limes and birch.

Thick bamboo planting makes a fine windbreak —
although the garden’s in a sheltered spot;
huge gunnera thrive down beside the creek,
the giant leaves give shelter when its hot.

Trachycarpus grows close to the graves,
myrtle flowers, acanthus fringe the creek;
this verdant Eden’s fed by springs and rills,
its Holy Well enjoys its own mystique.

In springtime there’s a sea of blue and white
when bluebells and the ramson flowers bloom;
on summer days hydrangeas – blues and pinks
and if it rains montbretia lifts the gloom.

Beneath a spreading palm, close by the creek,
a message on a tablet to embrace
and reason why this couple chose to stay —
in simple words it tells they “Loved this Place.”

* The Rev. Humfrey Davis laid out quotations from 55 religious texts on either side of the main path.




When first green bramble berries start to show
And early hedgerow flowers start to fade,
Up roadside grasses twining bindweed grows –
Widdershins – towards bright sunlight’s haze.

Soon hedges down the lane wear heart-shaped leaves –
Every where’s a smother of white flowers –
Bell-like, large, they congregate like thieves
To steal the light, ambitious to climb higher.

Unlike favoured cousin, Morning Glory
Bindweed in your garden is a pain –
A tiny bit of root repeats the story,
Enveloping your beds with weed again.


A flasher's in the undergrowth!
From cowl-like spathe, a spadix looms:
poker-shaped, purple and erect.

This plant's strange notoriety
relates to how it looks in Spring —
its bearing's spawned some bawdy names
like Adam and Eve, Cows and Bulls
Jack in the Pulpit, Naked Boys.

Its common name of Cuckoo Pint
sounds innocent but it's not right
as “Pint” should really rhyme with “mint”…
Priest's Pintle tells a different tale.

This plant has got a hundred names
and folklore's built up down the years:
some gullible young country girls
believed that just to touch a leaf
would make them pregnant overnight.

Well known for its toxicity,
in Tudor times the plant was used
by washer-women starching ruffs,
their burnt and blistered hands confirmed
the harmful nature of Starch Root.
By Autumn how the Arum's changed:

died back, green cowl and arrow leaves,
now plant appears as Naked Girls —
brazen and pale, ringed with bright beads...
These berries send to A & E
more casualties than other plants...

Most dangerous, the Cuckoo Pint.


Self-sown, on waste ground, in old masonry,
it’s found a toehold on old factory sites,
populates the ruins of stately homes.
Once a cultivar, it slipped away
to set up home beside the railway tracks,
on abandoned buildings, sprouts from broken paths.
Buddleia can outgrow some native plants,
seeds germinate on dry and hostile ground;
its panicles of tiny lilac flowers
are where the bees and butterflies are found.
And, at a time with species in decline,
when campaigns urge Save Butterflies and Bees
our government has found time to decide
that buddleia is no more than a weed…

 (Department for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs)  Has declared buddleia to be an “invasive alien species.”


That day, under trees sonorous with bees,
when yellow flowers filled the canopy,
he laughed and blurted out one word : “Lipiec!”

“The month and tree in Polish are the same
and here we have lime blossom and July.
The flowers we collected were first dried
then used to make a special remedy –
drinking lime tea was very good for me…
we had songs and poems about limes.”

Quietly we waited in the buzzing shade –
he finished, misty-eyed with memories.

Now, when I stop beneath those limes today,
through half-shut eyes while lulled by humming bees,
I conjure in the shade another shade –
the shadow of the man he used to be.

An avenue of limes  at CLIVEDEN