Stuart Miller-Osborne

On a Terrace in Algiers On a terrace in Algiers I painted as the sun declined It never returned I did not collect my work Martin Luther In the places where the cedars grow Tea can be taken You will be seated Next to Martin Luther Souvenirs are available Found  In a wine field Under […]

The tree admires the lavender fields But does not care for the perfume The burning hills west Dream of the sea And the fragrance of mermaids.   Written on a copy of Le Monde whilst driving through Southern France (1981)

Plucked unknown from the pitiful waters of the city she rests cold upon the ice slab below the windows of the dead her faint smile hardly cutting those frozen lips going unnoticed, distant from the recreational stares of the vacant file for she had seen in those murky depths the many coloured lights of the […]

The Church of the Mountains Has no congregation Its path is clear But nobody comes   Only I see its beating heart

The spindle trees Write quiet messages On the low cloud As the sparse birds search For their fortune tokens In the brittle light soil.   Remembered maidens worry About their imperfections Whilst on the brink of beauty As the mystic cartmen Celebrate the dead blossom air.   At the inn of all seasons The men […]

Why did the snail cross the road ? Because he was moving house.         A serious and good philosophical work                                                                         could be written consisting entirely of jokes                                                                                                                           Wittgenstein

What distant memories Will you possess When you study The libraries of the universe ?

The sign clings to the white stone It is an essential love I have discussed the platonic

I had always known that he had an astonishing sense of colour But was he a gifted man ? It was reported that when he sliced a tomato in half He found an orchestra But did not stay to witness the symphony It was this dedication to his art That set him apart from other […]

The dripping dawn had broken the winter writers burning ideal of his waxen youth and a strange linnet sang songs of peculiar clarity in the purple pessimism of its ruby cage    c 1976