I am an honest man

Who often sits in canvas chairs

On colourful mornings

Considering running rhythms

Which are often called

Common English rhythms

Which are measured by feet

Either two or three syllables

No now I am boring you

I apologise for that

Poets can be such boring people

As they can see both the beauty

And the ugliness in everything

They are the true writers

And lead difficult lives

As they live by rules

That are no longer present

Apart from my own chair

I have five other chairs

Dotted around this huge garden

Each of these chairs

Exhibits a different colour

But they all have connections

Which are quite believable

I have a red chair and an orange chair

So therefore I have to have a yellow chair

I have a black canvas chair

So obviously I have a white chair

I am sitting in a grey chair

Jane is asleep on her bed

She is quite naked

I can see her clearly

Through the open veranda doors

She has her bottom facing me

And a hint of her maiden hair

Can just be seen if I lean forward

The whole tableau is intensely erotic

Although she is the only figure

Motionless in the early sun

I wish I could express this in words

Yet I am not a poet

But an honest man

Who likes sitting in canvas chairs

Just after the dawn

Considering poetry

And exploring the distant nudity

Of his partner of many years