Stuart Miller-Osborne

My beach hut is not brightly coloured like its neighbours it has views to the Solent but chooses to remain anonymous like the sea it has no time for these Malibu dreamers

I had arrived, she looked at me from behind her abanico. The apartment was as spotless as it always was. Nothing moved in the large white room apart from the reflections of the passing cars. Although only ten hours old the day was already raw, a heat mist was building over the sea. “ Shall…

they gather around the yellow house to witness the sly slow melt and a southern traveller goes north to a city that waits for death whilst a letter is written to many friends.

Autumn Lovers Wild winds warn winter Brown leaves will fall in the rain Lovers wear their shrouds Winter Clouds Winter plume of cloud Now covers the dry valley The cold will prevail Spring Warmth Warmth from the dead earth Feeds the early colour bud A child eyes will smile Summer Grasses Swift Summer grasses Dance…

She died within the breath of the sea in a small darkened room lifeless in a wicker chair. She cast no shadow on the floor surround as only the damp drapes were moved by the solemn virtue of the sadnight air.   taken from the painting  A Lady Reading  by Gwen John 1989  

Fluted columns of bygone hopes are bathed in the light of the dying year All trains are migrating south leaving only the irregular pilgrims to shelter in their sacred formation In the poverty of the starlight only the wretched will celebrate its geography   1989  

She sat on the veranda of a white house not far from the sea. The house had been built some eighty years previously. Its decorative ironwork was showing signs of age. The years of heat and humidity had taken their toll and streaks of rust had started to mar the initial celebration. On the table…

From the light years of my journey I will send you gifts Wrapped in blue paper You will not receive them As blue is not a reflective colour   From the depths of this space I will send you my frag songs Wrapped in blue paper You will not receive them Due to the density…

I found him ill and in apparent decay His fingers feeble still touched her silent strings

With dignity he lay in the hell of another man’s war His head rested, stooped in his pewter green helmet As the battle grasses were shaken by her shallow breath He felt the ghost of her kiss on his bloodied brow   From the painting of the same name by G F Watts