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Sir Knight,

The crashing blade that laid Sir Knight,

In sanguine pools about his breast,

Took not mercy on his soul,

Nor did it offer time to rest,

For once again it cleaved his flesh,

Splintered forth his very core,

The warrior finished like a beast,

Heavens gateway to explore,

Yet with his passing came a change,

The wind cried colder by degree,

Brave men feared of distant hills,

Of dark grey spectres away at sea,

Through wooded paths at fall of night,

The hoot of owl chilled to the bone,

Many a warrior, favour borne,

A-feared to tread the path alone,

For in the light of misted dawn,

A trail of death could there be found,

Each warrior slain by flashing steel,

In sanguine pools upon the ground,

Yet none were brought to battle there,

Within the deep secluded glade,

Each dispatched to heaven’s gate,

By the spectral flash of Sir Knight’s blade,


© Paul Osborne 2005. (Awarded at Poetry Castle)












Buttercup days

Sitting in the meadow grass,

Summer bright and carefree,

We giggled as we rolled around,

Just two children full of glee,

We made a chain of daisies,

Wore them neatly just like gems,

Every flower a precious jewel,

On tiny pale green stems,

Then I took a buttercup,

Held the flower to your chin,

The yellow colour lit your face,

Your beauty shone from within,

.“ You’ve been eating butter!”

I laughed out loud with glee,

Your eyes so full of wonder,

Lit up and spoke to me,

Though only eight years old or so,

Beneath the skies above,

Looking back upon that moment,

I think I fell in love.


© Paul Osborne 2007






Mother of all.

I cast my eyes out to the sacred night,

Where all the sparkling stars were shining bright,

As Mother moon sat with her guiding eye,

To watch my life and world just passing by,


The silver pools of light that fall around,

Cast my lonely shadow upon the ground,

Drawing me deep into her sacred night,

Where few now dare to walk, nor birds take flight,


She holds me tender like all mothers should,

In ancient ways not known, yet understood,

She fills my heart with whispers of her soul,

That ever smiling moon so in control,


So when she comes not to the sacred night,

My heart is left undone and without sight.

© Paul Osborne 2007.






Nature’s lover.

I find my way in emerald hues,

Grasses sway in gentle sighs,

As Mother Sun breathes upon my skin,

From the blue and tranquil skies,

I drink at Nature’s rounded breast,

Nurtured by her welcome milk,

Laid upon the mossy banks,

Soft to touch like expensive silk,

She strokes my brow to ease my mind,

Warms my soul with tenderness,

Until the chill of evening comes,

As I stretch myself in readiness,

Mid twilights slowly ebbing veil,

I saunter gently over brook and stile,

As Mother moon beams maternally,

Guides my way over the weaving mile,

Perhaps this is the joy of life,

A priceless gift from times gone by,

Myself and Nature making love,

Completeness comes with her tender sigh,

So replete, I feel at ease,

My lover curled tender ‘til the dawn,

To come again at day’s first light,

She will be renewed and I reborn.

© Paul Osborne 2007








Do the clouds?

Do the clouds feel pain?

As they drift through life,

Crossing continents unchallenged,

Ever changing their mood, -

As I watch them intently,

I wonder if I am the only one,

Who cares about their heart,

All I know for sure,

Is that when their mood is dark,

They often cry,

© Paul Osborne 2007.







The next poem was written for a scatty 17 year old who I met one winters morning. Not only did Bev buy the poem, over the years she has collected a few more of my pieces, all framed and hanging in her home.......Thanks Bev. So here it is, that very first one.







Breakfast trolley Bev.


See the punters board the train,

To escape the wind and pouring rain,

Shaking out their sodden brolly,

They rush off to the buffet trolley,

Where Bev is serving drinks and snacks,

To all the Toffs in dripping Macs,

One chap wants a G and T,

“ Tha’ll not get ‘owt like that from me!”

Bev tells the gent, so smart and tall,

“ No booze on’t trolley here at all,

So the gentleman, he has no choice,

And asks once more in plumy voice,

This time for coffee, sweet and black,

Plus a Danish pastry off the rack,

Bev takes his money, hears him scold,

“ I say, this cup of coffee’s cold!”

Bev replies, face scrunched up tight,

“ You Southern lads - Tha’s soft as SHITE!!


Paul Osborne 2002.


This blessed night.


This blessed night of Autumn sky,

Wrapped as if in velvet cape,

A veil of mist that dwells on high,

Brings a chill with no escape,


The moon lies nestled in the dark,

Opaque, she looks so very odd,

The mist, distorts her rounded form,

As if smudged, by the hand of god,


I cannot see her tender smile,

Nor do her beams enlighten me,

Lying lifeless as they do,

Upon the gently rising sea,


Yet calm is in my very soul,

Within the peace I hear no cry,

Once more I feel the beauty of,

This blessed night of Autumn sky,



© Paul Osborne 2008