Stuart Miller-Osborne

My natural wife has closed her eyes The southern landscapes are now blind In an hour we will arrive at our farm Which has views over the valley

I love the intimate gardens Seen from the passing trains They bring me such pleasure Some are almost derelict Suffocated by their fading years Often these were the retreats Of long forgotten poets and artists

messages in bottles how many at sea too many to predict declarations of vacancy declarations of love

Messaggi in bottiglia Quanti in mare Troppi da prevedere Dichiarazioni di posti vacanti Dichiarazioni d’amore

Only lions understand True freedom They are far from terrified

In certain ways it is a simple hotel Functional and without excess It is about a mile from the beach That shares its regional name The hotel is next to a railway bridge Express trains pass by at high speed This gives the area a transient feel Which to me is a guilty pleasure

Anne Antibes is my wife She was named After the southern town Our local beach is known As the blue beach After a villa in the hills

Warm but without blue skies Our day is acceptable But it is not luxurious There is a gentleness To the folding breeze But I sense its later aggression

Our summer holiday is complete Only memories remain Pascale has framed One of our beach photographs Which hangs from a whitewashed wall

There is a Salt Beach near Luna’s house Which indicates to me that the area Was once worked by the Romans We frequently use this pale beach Although we are both from Spain