Stuart Miller-Osborne

It was a rare morning With the pale blue sky Littered with thin white clouds I was happy again And so was my sleeping friend Her name was Zelda We had met in a forest clearing Just before the night smothered All of the hillside paths

I love French beaches And the quiet evening lanes Of late summer days

On the day that I was knighted I was arrested for writing this poem On the bare bottom of a woman Who identified as Sixteen Cat

Stepped briskly into his large back garden He was looking for the pink moon Above the rich orchards of Penlice But it was hidden by heavy clouds It was while he was standing by the pool That he heard the roar of the night winds A storm was coming it was not far away

I collect mosses from dry stone walls So that I may line your pillows And bring you the gift of sleep

When travelling on the local bus I imagined A female athlete running beside the vehicle Wearing a blue and green track suit She is now an important member Of my happy clappy church

I imagined the sand dunes The rough grasslands As I walked along my Good Friday Beach

Scrambling shrubs Late of hedgerows Woodland edges Sweet scented pink Wild summer flowers

I was born in Bath And worked in Wells Living next door To a girl named Shells She chewed gum On our frequent dates We soon broke up Yet remained good mates I often read dime novels Long past their prime And slowly got pissed On lemon and lime

Undress Undress in front Of the television Matilda As it wants To see you Without clothes