John Wain

,The gorilla lay on his back ,One hand cupped under his head .Like a man

.Forgive me that I pitch your praise too low ,Such reticence my reverence demands .For silence falls with laying on of hands

,This is the gay cliff of the nineteenth century ,Drenched in the hopeful ozone of a new day ,Erect and brown, like retired sea-captains .The houses gaze vigorously at the ocean