Stuart Miller-Osborne

In all of my journeys there is a constant The day moon follows me everywhere The sun rises the sun sets The world is full of Lithuanians My dog is full of health But he does not travel with me I record grand weddings with my pen And eat only chickens raised on farms I […]

I was walking along The South Western Coastal Path When I ran into an old friend Lynchings Techno Has it really been ten years In a World So Rotten Was very pleased to see me As dogs normally are I must give off a special scent We all walked together For a few miles before […]

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Stretching as far as you can see Sunflowers Tulips and Silent Daisies Brushed bare beneath my bloodied feet Fields My Fresh Golden Fields Butterflies wild Hover over broken branches The war is over Liberty now stains the soil The Poppies are not far away

My flatland journey Was so different today As the late afternoon sky Became a celebration Of many colours This was a short theatre

My father’s father was born in Surrey in 1893 and after an unremarkable childhood found himself facing a worldwide conflict during his early twenties He did not have any deep religious beliefs but was aware of the futility of war and became a pacifist Nor did he want to lay his life down because of […]

About five years ago I moved To a pleasant French town I needed space to write My small house is not far from Nantes It was badly damaged during the war And still shows minor scars I have a photograph of my house Taken during those terrible years Which shows a town cross opposite Sadly […]

I had not really seen a December sky such as this It was a red pink blush sunset sleeping on the clouds In my bag I was carrying some front of house stills I intended to show them to Sonia who was my sisters best friend I had met her before but it was only […]

I live on the forgotten side Of the lighthouse It faces away from the sea Sonia the wonder mother Often smokes there on warm evenings Her choice is Seville I do not approve of her smoking But admire the patterns Of the smoke shadows Black blue and grey

About six miles from the lighthouse There is an artificial lake It was created in the eighteenth century By damming a river that ran into the sea Although it cannot be seen from the road There is small summer house painted jade For many years before the war It was used by silent monks I […]