He does his yoga, straining up, 

She speaks to students, gives advice,

(One hand clasps the telephone

The other deals with fag and wine)

Meanwhile he now stands on his head

Counts his breaths and ponders life

She puts the phone down, pours more drink

Strokes the cat, goes to the stove

Then expertly chops vegetables;

While, on his arse, he counts heartbeats

Doing alternate nostril breathing

He’s in his sixties, much younger she

(Though no chicken) and who would think

Among the world’s top pairs of lovers

They star, beneath the Brentford sky? 

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