Patrick Osada


Here's a selection of my poems for APRIL .

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






This season’s rushing in like a mad hare —
now everywhere I look there’s bloom and leaf;
this morning more fresh birdsong fills the air
and green begins to show on sluggish beech.
The rising sun has melted back to dew
an early mist that blanketed the hills,
bright dandelions hide the tiny shrew
below the apple blossom’s first pink frills.

Bluebells fill the copse near Wesley’s Mere
and, in the hedgerows, ransoms start to show.
The old grey urn has been bees’ home for years
as, from the crack, the busy workers flow
to visit more and more enticing flowers –
enjoying sun, dodging sudden showers.



Exotics, on dull Lenten days,
outflank drab sparrows’ dismal show
with tinkling, bell-like calls in flight
and flash of gold as off they go –
a charm of finches bob the hedge.

Pushed to the margins of the farms
where tractors spray with herbicides,
goldfinches seek untended scenes
for spiky teasels, thistledown
and groundsels’ tiny wind blown seeds.

Kept as a charm against the plague,
then caged for beauty and for song,
they almost died out in the wild
till keeping them was seen as wrong
and Parliament came to their aid.

Yet, down the ages they’ve appeared
in pictures of the infant Christ :
companions for a tiny child,
as symbols of the sacrifice
and passion that was yet to come…

These sweet-voiced, gold-winged tiny birds
pulled out the thorns to free Christ’s crown.
In doing so, his blood was spilled
and blessed them with a love profound –
marking cheeks red as sacred birds


New born, the leveret hunkers down,
this shallow grassy form its only refuge.
From the field gate — one careless step away —
it faces lowering skies and April deluge.

Furred and mobile, leverets grow up fast —
once an evening visit from their mothers;
soon eating grasses, weaned in thirty days
for a secret life mostly under cover.

Out of hedgerow grass, as teams trot out,
a startled hare blunders across the pitch.
Frightened by the crowd, chased by unleashed dog,
zig-zags to safety, bounds the yawning ditch.

Elusive moon-gazers, meditators,
solitary envoys on the run;
they make shy pets — highly strung, evasive —
Cowper kept three hares, Boudica had one.

Seen from the train, in a distant pasture,
a lepus convocation set to scare :
these witches’ familiars and shape-shifters…
Was that a coven or some circled hares?

Through the field gate,
turning along the hedge,
I almost step on a young hare.

Perfectly still,
sheltered below hazel,
it crouches in its hidden form:

long ears erect,
that coat of browns and black –
its camouflage since being born.

Down corridors,
passed pictures large and small,
today I walk grand marble halls.

From an entrance,
tracking the carpet’s edge,
I’m face to face with “A Young Hare”

which instantly
evokes my leveret –
caught between paper and mind’s eye.

Careful brush strokes
emphasize the detailed
whiskers, ears, eyes and glossy fur…

And I am held:
trapped by memories
and a five hundred year-long stare.

A Young Hare by Albrecht Durer is on display at The Albertina, Vienna.


One for sorrow is quite enough
to bring the birdsong to a stop.
Out of the field, along our hedge,
this corvid checks for nests to wreck.
Through dooms of love the parents fear
the loss of eggs or tiny birds.
Blackbirds have flown, their nest torn down,
even the feisty robin’s gone...
As from the roof dark eyes observe
the maiden flight of fledgling birds.

Wartime photo Dad in uniform, Polish Airforce.  

 Dad would've been 104 on April 13th      (13/04/1920 - 11/09/2012)


In far-off days the road was clear
and safe enough for Dad and son
to practice with first two-wheeled bike.

Gripping the saddle post, Father
steadied bike and son and, pushing
at a gentle trot, sought balance.

Wobbling down the road they went
with Father jogging to keep up –
his grip on bicycle so light.

And I could see his shadow there,
supporting me along the road,
until I noticed it had gone…

I thought I’d left him far behind
but knew that he was always there
and with me now to the road’s end.


Begins in the traditional way
with birdsong, blossom and the flag
in places with a village green,
a Norman church and shiny Jags.

Since early childhood we have heard
legends of a glittering past,
but conquests and our heroes now
are rising through a different caste.

As kettles boil the breakfast news
reports events that form a theme
of how, when heritage is lost,
the nation loses self esteem.

"Our policies are now in place
with Forums for Equalities,
Britannia has changed her face,
hip to the new realities."

The men in suits divide and rule,
they spin all facts to suit their game,
whilst on estates in problem towns
the flag is used to fan the flame.

In terraced rows and high rise flats
we quarrel over worthless crumbs,
our changing culture will arise
armed and dangerous from the slums.

Out in the park an old dog snarls
at mongrel puppies rushing by;
by boat and plane the future comes,
shivering under leaden skies.