Stuart Miller-Osborne

Ashland has a minute grain of salt Which she keeps in a small jar Along with her many pieces of sea glass Argentina keeps black volcanic sand In a small jar with a few local sea pebbles The sand came from a freezing Icelandic beach Both Ashland and Argentina are friends of mine They share…

Whilst walking along our mystical beach I passed four women in office attire Pausing I informed them of the dress code That was expected of them if the sea became brittle

I have lived by the sea for a number of years The sea is part of my very existence When I am away from my coastal home I feel wretched and very unhappy Each day Minnie and I collect sea glass from the beach We have created a successful business using our gifts Our jewellery…

How often does he want to marry you Nine to Five Three times a week We are taking about your cat Yes the cat is the subject of our conversation What colour is your cat During the day It is a normal tabby cat At night it is a black cat

I once lived in a small town in the West Country Many of the local families Had been there for generations Or at least from last week It was crappy/ happy town Surrounded by sleeping fields I attended a church skool Which although deeply academic Was populated by savages (including myself) The grotto of the…

I spend most of my afternoons Painting sea shells bright blue This is not the only colour I use But is my colour of choice My husband fell from a wall today And bloodied his beautiful face I now declare this wall open

In 1910 a Wesleyan Chapel was built On St Martin’s Hill in Dover It was bombed in 1917 and rebuilt in 1920 In 1941 it was bombed again and rebuilt in 1949

This was my final request My cousin told me to fuck off If you show me your breasts I will leave your wretched city My visit had been a complete disaster Doria and I were hardly on speaking terms Although we bathed together When the house was empty On the way back from Argentina My…

I have a collection of figurines On a lacquered table They often sing to me During the silent hours

I who, conceived beneath another star, Had been a prince and played with life, instead Have been its slave, an outcast exiled far From the fair things my faith has merited. My ways have been the ways that wanderers tread And those that make romance of poverty— Soldier, I shared the soldier’s board and bed, And Joy has been a thing more…