Stuart Miller-Osborne

In the window the cornflake packets lose their colour as on the shelves the books (ex Boots Library) gather dust my mother has left coins on the lip of the till these will not be moved as we are all on the beach today    

On the Shipping Day Everybody travels to the sea To view the passing ships And taste their enchanted cargos    

The Ye ye Girls In my room I danced to the music Of the Ye ye girls Until my milk boiled over And scalded my feet   Amsterdam All short films are set in Amsterdam None of these are shot in colour   To Kenny, From the Boys From our southern gardens We watched the […]

passes silently through the open forest half water half mud half hidden it clothes its travellers without option yet all who pass ignore its icy ministry    

The Webster Man I met with Webster once more in the lane leading to the white horse He had aged since our previous meeting but the horse had not aged at all   Ideal The weather vane greeted the dawn with an indifference not seen for many years even the joyful cock refused to crow […]

Simon One looked at the marshlands Which had been lit by the full light Of the new moon Her memories hung in the silk mist He never forgot them   Five hundred years later Simon Five stood on the same spot The marshes had been drained And dwellings built nearby He looked at the new […]

A number of years ago a memorial card remembering the life of the Reverend Thomas Francis Keily was found in his hymn book which he had carried since his early days. Thomas was born in Waterford in January 1805 and died in Huddersfield in May 1836. As he travelled between the waters of his childhood […]

He was the second of three sisters and lived normally until he was nine when he suffered colour blindness. At the age of twenty-one he wrote his solitary poem. Sibling X   When Jessica took a shower she noticed that the descending spray travelled with economy over the cherry red tiles. She was watched by […]

Aside the brook Beneath the trees This is the haunt Of the dreaming bees You sent this rhyme to me in a velvet envelope but addressed it to a David Hathaway who lives in the hills far from here. He does not care for The Poetry of Empire. Your writings should have never left the […]

Do not climb the emperors staircase as my attentive thoughts will desert you At all times I carry a likeness of my father I will not listen to your raiders songs