Here is a selection of my poetry for APRIL

APRIL LOVE - Arthur Hughes (1832 - 1915)

INTO APRIL

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.

SPRING SONG

(For Darryl)

And, if it was my gift, here’s what I’d do :

I’d build for you that perfect bright Spring day…

A balmy breeze will hardly stir the trees;

air, fresh and clear for miles, so we can see

where distant high blue hills meet azure skies.

Above, in barren trees where first leaves show,

the rooks work noisily repairing nests

and quietly below primrose unfurls,

while, down the field edge, snow in blackthorn’s hedge.

Bright yellow celandines march up the bank

beneath the lemon-pollened willow’s fur;

then somewhere close we’ll hear a robin sing,

sparking the songs of many distant birds.

BLACKTHORN

Our blackthorn has been wonderful this year,

each hedge I passed seemed blanketed in snow.

The trees, like white sails, billowed over lanes

and verges… and the celandines’ bright show.

A gusting wind sprang up to shake the hedge,

bending the trees to rock them to and fro,

releasing blossom in a blizzard fall,

surprising horse and rider just below.

As drifts of snow-white petals filled the lane

the parting clouds revealed a watery sun;

although the signs of Spring were in the air,

the cold wind warned that Winter’s not yet done…

Now, seasons on, the hedge bears blue-black sloes,

As bitter as that wind from long ago.

TO THE END OF THE ROAD

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.

(In memory of my Father, Bronek Osada, 13/04/1920 – 11/09/2012)

GOLDFINCHES

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.

ELVERS

Riding spring tides, sucked into Severn’s mouth,

they’ve braved Atlantic storms to swarm upstream :

this mass of squirming grey translucency,

glass eels, whose every heartbeat can be seen.

Rare pike and wading herons eat their fill,

and, on ebb tides at night, lone fishermen

come out with lights, attract this shoal

close to the banks and dip-nets’ caging pens.

Spring’s river harvest time in bygone days

saw elver-eating contests at the pub;

sold cheaply by the pint to working men,

these baby eels were starving families’ grub.

Today, ‘though fewer make the nets, the catch,

a writhing, frothy mass, is ferried home

by van in plastic tanks and old tin baths

to sell, as special Easter treats, to gastronomes.

MAGPIE IN APRIL

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.

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