Taking the coastal road to the fortress town

of Galle, we embarked on the desultory epic

of an island barely at peace with itself

in one more uncertain truce, driving

past ramshackle backpackers’ beaches

and sealed-off compounds of luxury hotels,

where locals glimpse at the kind of leisure

only imported money acquires.

 

And how unassumingly they accept

unremarkable days, gifted again

in the wake of trauma, where a flawless view

of the ocean expands in endless bland deceit

alongside a strip of highway,

as business seeks its vantage points –

purveyors of dosas and the king coconut

vendors deftly wielding cleavers.

 

Now part of our new extended family,

we hoarded tourists’ memories –

the roadside stroller reeling after his night

on arrack, and the porcupine chained to a stake,

the drums and gongs of a school parade.

Tangled among the trees there were scraps

of railway track, a carriage cast aside

like a spoilt child’s toy.

 

We arrived at the town late afternoon,

our son-in-law and the driver needing

to say their prayers. The mosque was a block

of whiteness bathed in perfect light.

Close by, we watched beach boys diving:

arms outstretched, embracing risk,

they dropped like stones, re-surfaced,

then clambered the rocks again.