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" There amongst the multicoloured shrubs, in the old summerhouse you will find him, writing poems for Mother Nature, that she might bless his garden with beauty"

My life, the garden.

My life surrounds me like a fence or hedge,

A boundary to keep me in place,

Varied in contents like a well stocked garden,

Perfumed with grandeur and grace,

Roguish weeds and brambles grow,

To spoil the harmony of Summer’s dream,

With flowers painted in delicate hues,

Yet all are not quite what they seem,

Behold the bloom of the true cultivar,

Rich of colour, sweet of scent,

Like those true friends in life’s endeavour,

Who’s words are warm and truly meant,

Rare is the flower that means so much,

On days when grey skies dull,

Drawing you into the garden of life,

When emotions ebb and lull,

Yet more the unwanted grow and choke,

I toil to keep the serenity,

If I save the sweetest bloom of all,

I will keep it for eternity.

(c) Paul Osborne 1999

 

The Summerhouse.

I sit in the Summerhouse,

The warm wind caresses Cedar panels,
Filling the air with exotic perfume,
As sun bleached timbers creak,
I relax inside Mother Nature's womb,

I sip my tea,

Savouring the 'chink' of cup on saucer,
The rattling of the silver spoon,
Biscuit crumbs that fall and scatter,
Alas! Summer will leave all too soon,

Father would have loved this,

Sleeves rolled to the Summer sun,
Amongst the flowers that he tended,
His leaving left a space in me,
Still aching - never mended,

Mother would have chuckled,

She'd tell me all the local news,
In her soft maternal way,
Oh yes! She would have loved it,
Shame she can't be here today,

We sit in the Summerhouse,

As the rose scent fills the sultry air,
Echoes of my life rebound,
Silently I let them drift,
In the company of spirits all around.

(c) Paul Osborne 2005.

The sacred Oak


They stood in awe of it’s beauty,

This mighty oak of old,

Four hundred years in the growing,

Magnificent to behold,

Oh, how it spoke to their hearts,

Telling mystical tales of yore,

Like a wizened Oracle,

It told of distant lore,

Beneath those sprawling branches,

Where countless lovers met,

A special bond of souls was made,

Once formed, not to forget,

A shrine to love of ages,

Where kisses had been bestowed,

Where plans were made in secret,

Some tears had overflowed,

A marker of the special times,

The mighty oak will be,

Touching the heart of lovers,

Who have touched this sacred tree.

© Paul Osborne 2006


The garden gate,

There upon his garden gate,

The poet leans in silent thought,

Musing over life and love,

All the joy the years have brought,

He welcomes you to enter then,

This shaded corner of his world,

Amongst the borders gay with colour,

A thousand welcome blooms unfurled,

No words are uttered in the peace,

Just silent admiration drawn,

As the dew flecked flowers rise,

To follow nature’s newest dawn,

So if you pass this way at all,

Stop awhile, engage in chat,

The musing poet, at his gate,

Deep in thought, in a sea grass hat.

 

© Paul Osborne 2008