Stuart Miller-Osborne

How did you survive that accident Mark I do not know it must be the will of God There is no God Really Yes Then it must because I trail my knuckles Against rough stone walls Until they bleed

In crowded cities People often sunbathe On flat irregular roofs During the hotter months

I am on the beach with Jane She is being careful not to burn I have now run out of shirts On this Greek holiday As she steals them all To ensure an even tan

I am in the sauna with Jane We are all modest in black towels Although quite topless in the heat There are three other men Within the sauna Each of them is chatting with Jane Or rather her rather fine breasts I must say that I am enjoying the solitude

I study this secret music By caressing ancient trees Centuries old With commanding views That In three hundred years Have not changed Even for moment

I find this music In the summer silk fields High on yellow cornflowers blue I see this silence In your cool grey eyes And in the way you walk Almost hidden within a dance What perfect rhythms you possess Jane What perfect rhythms you possess

For some reason We always took our holidays In Hastings And stayed in the same house Run by Mr and Mrs Pure The other guests were sedate Bur very pleasant and essentially English So we enjoyed our residence And then it ended one summer When Mr Pure quite suddenly died His wife ran the business…

I was born in a cottage next to the Apple Estuary My father was a fisherman As was his father and his father before him But I did not follow them on to the boats As I had been given a rare musical talent And was accepted into a Music School Which shaped my glittering…

Pippa passes many a***s On the nudist beach She is with her friend White Brown Dolores And ignores my vulgarity As well she should I am her brother Lawrence Smothered by desires Quite why we holiday together Is a puzzle for the Gods We swim abandoned But I am quite lustful Greedy for the female…

I have a print of Courbet’s painting at the foot of my bed It brings me pleasure at the end of the day My wife does not really care for the work As it reminds her of her recent past We each own a blank canvas But keep our brushes locked away