Patrick Osada


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Here's a selection of my poems for JUNE.

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

            ROSE : THE POET'S WIFE                                                                                                                                                                                                          


BEYOND St. CLEMENT                                           

This is the place for silent contemplation :
I'm resting in a wooded sheltered space
and thinking slow and solitary thoughts
where glow worms once had lit this shaded path.

Coming into focus now how life could be.
Just looking out across this secret place :
Tresillian mud flats to the river's end
and wishing this could be my chosen home.

It's solitude that brings such clarity —
my method of uniting disparate things.
Sitting here replaying all my thoughts
while watching flocks of curlew flying in -

They land, like memories from the past, in these margins.
Birds and thoughts come together here —
my mind won't hurry now between each one.
Like the spiralling buzzard I keep silent watch

while all the time my thoughts just turn or spin.
Still trying to reconcile my past,
I find a way of starting up again:
light on water, timeless place, salt air and acumen.

(Watching Deer)
At dusk, from off the bank
where primroses had been,
we watched for wary shades :
deer, inching through the wheat.

Excitement carefully checked,
we froze and dared not breathe
as antlered heads bobbed close
across that golden sea.

Thrilling to see them near —
elusive and so shy —
a tingle like the time
we watched kingfishers dive.

We waited silently
as night began to fall :
dogs barked, a cow lowed once,
wind rippled ripening corn.

Not deer — but being with you,
is what I most recall :
the closeness of our wait,
our hearts beating as one;

a tiny sense of hope,
a symbol of our love.


We saw their nest sites in Estoi —
dense colonies of mud-built cups
jammed under eaves of buildings there.
No practise flights for fledgling swifts,
they launch off on a three year flight
to eat, drink, sleep, mate on the wing.

On summer evenings, eating out,
swift multitudes would skim the square
for moths attracted by the lights;
then suddenly, they’d disappear
spiralling on their vesper flight
up and away from starlit town.

Swifts led the Moors from Africa
to settle on Sabika Hill
and build their fortressed palace home.
Alhambra still attract these birds —
hawking insects from ponds and rills —
a show for all the tourists there.

But England’s swifts are in decline :
lost nesting sites and food supplies
have halved the numbers coming here —
no screaming parties any more,
small groups or birds in ones or twos —
those drifts of swifts gone from our skies…

Vesper Flight – in the evening groups of swifts gather
then fly upwards many thousand feet. They will stay at
this altitude for several hours, asleep on the wing


           (Castanea Sativa)

Long after Larkin’s trees first came to leaf,
orchards bloomed, hedgerows came alive with May.
When the candled flowers of conker trees
were all but spent, gold ribbons filled this tree.
Catkins! These yellow tassels catch the sun,
hang over serrated leaves like clouties —
ragged streamers left on fairy trees as prayers.
Like clouties, catkins symbolize a wish —
for fecundity, Autumn’s fruitfulness.

Clouties : cloth strips tied to trees is an ancient tradition.
The cloth represents a prayer to Nature’s Spirits and Deities for help.


Growing up when things were tight,
she kept her clothes intact and whole :
a stitch in time extending life —
running repairs were deftly sewn.

The modern way confuses her :
letting good clothing run to holes
as youngsters never learn to sew —
cheap fashion is disposable…

Just like the friends that they unfriend
at Facebook on their internet,
these friendships are just transient
and very soon turn into holes.

Her friendships few, but made to last,
because she works to keep them fresh :
a please, a thank you or a hug —
a stitch in time is all it takes.


…I cannot like the scent,
Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,
With no meaning, than this bitter one

( Old Man – Edward Thomas )

Initially, like Thomas’s “Old Man,”
this pungent smell is difficult to place :
familiar – both bitter and yet sweet –
it does not chime with me like other scents.

Hovering on thick air like memories,
it stops me in my tracks and makes me think :
arriving in fresh waves, just like the past,
it leads me to a hedge across the street.

Carefully shaped : dark leaves cut trim and close,
do not disclose the very thing I seek
but, where the shears have missed a growing tip,
tiny white spikes of flowers now persist.

There, softly in late sun, scent speaks to me :
transports me down the vista of the years
to where an old man, dressed in corduroy,
flashes quick shears, watched by a lonely boy.


Diverging from our usual path —
grassy track through woodland —
a weird light flickered through the trees
where shadowy shapes were moving.

A weird light flickered through the trees
down grassy track through woodland;
the atmosphere turned strangely cold
as summer day was turning dark.

Unearthly whirring sounds began
accompanied by a buzzing hum…
as summer day was turning dark
the atmosphere turned strangely cold.

A dazzling light above the trees
and all the woodland birds were stilled…
Accompanied by a buzzing hum
unearthly whirring sounds began.

A dazzling light above the trees
where shadowy shapes were moving
and all the woodland birds were stilled
down grassy track through woodland.