Stuart Miller-Osborne

Large blood red roses Decorate The walls Of my room Some say That they were stained By the blood of Christ But I know that the weeping poppies Scarred these walls

When visiting beaches I often search For emotive pebbles They bring me much comfort No matter their mood As I ignore their emotions

She steals around the village after dark Weeping for her lost love Many have tried to help her But she was betrayed By the fluid whiteness Of her sea dress     A weeping mermaid visits the small coastal village of Kingsdown in Kent once a year on the anniversary of her fiancés death He […]

Before moving away from the small coastal village where I spent my childhood and former years I knew a mysterious girl named Dover Anthem She was considered odd by many as she could often be found combing the beach for the lost treasure of pirates or swimming alone in the sea For some reason she […]

The Old Rifle Range Under the towering white cliffs near the coastal village of Kingsdown in Kent one can find a derelict rifle range once used by my marines The years of disuse have taken their toll and the whole area is in a state of advanced decay I initially visited the rifle range in […]

The elevated signal box The bright morning mist The silver rails The bold signal The uneven platforms   My train will arrive In a few minutes Without much fuss I will begin my daily commute With these quiet memories       Canterbury East Railway Station   

During the cooler months I collect pebbles from the beach And create interesting circles In my winter flower garden

I have toured the countries of Europe for a number of years I am not sure of my exact age as I brought up in an orphanage in Northern Greece I was told that I was born in 1947 but I think I am much younger as my hair is only beginning to turn grey […]

On my left there were a number of men dressed in Great War army uniforms There were in a circle and singing hymns I looked out to sea Neptune and his mermaids Were swimming in the waves I filmed them on my phone A wretched waif dressed in filthy rags Tapped me on the shoulder […]

t seems strange that their pens became silent On the same summers day A great deal of time has now passed But they have not been forgotten In the dereliction of their years   The War Poets Hedd Wyn and Francis Ledwidge were killed on the same day July the 31st 1917