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