Stuart Miller-Osborne

Deaf grasshoppers in the cornfields Produced their peaceful songs Which were enjoyed by all who passed If I had been still I would have recorded these quiet melodies And filed them into my silent libraries      

One I have been told not to eat ants As they believe in the regeneration Of the soul discuss   Two If one places their hand into a bucketful of ants Then they will crawl up your arm And nest in your warm areas discuss   Three When walking in the countryside You will pass […]

The sun set behind the cricket pavilion As my magnificent host Toasted the evening with champagne I had little interest in his celebration As I was counting your summer clouds   We swan together in the great lakes of the estate And watched as the shooting stars Fell gracefully from the sky   In a […]

Rotating quiver leaves Fade in the narrow winds Black and white and green in colour    

A girl crawled hidden by a split hedge Towards the brow of the hill Her fine dress had been reduced to rags Nobody was aware of her presence Until she started to untie her phantasy locks    

Edward was writing a book on migrating clowns When a finch landed on his writing desk I have escaped It said But the elephants are still imprisoned During the first hour of my war I bled profusely He wrote And the finch found tears in its eyes as it read these words    

When I was a child we lived in a house with many landings On each of these landings there were many prints of exotic birds I often visited these birds willing them to fly But they never did remaining still in their frames My father was a monumental mason who often gave me offcuts of […]

There was a sense of democracy in the rhubarb village Until the greengages arrived Although solid and hardworking Many found their manners rough The tiny red currants became extremely worried When the greengages were in season And frequently lost their colour This state of affairs obviously could not continue So the other soft fruits hired […]

On the 76th minute of the 76th day 76 people went apple picking As they wished to make cider But the season was unkind So they made tea instead    

The Monk Fish was writing a Gothic Romance But as he lived in the sea The ink ran And nobody was able to read his work His solution was to write his novel On a lonely rock In the middle of the harbour But the unfortunate creature Became dry and dusty And died with chapters […]