Mombassa

It’s quite unique,
the physique
– of the trees,
that whisper, in the coastal breeze.

I can’t keep tabs
of the baobabs,
and the many tall palms
with their fruit filled arms.

And birds abound,
and monkeys are found
in these tropical lands,
so are snow white sands.

On the beach,
keeping from reach,
are small pink crabs
feeding, in dribs and drabs.

And if the tide
has lost it’s pride
one can walk on the reef.
Stare, in disbelief

at the beauty
and the booty
of Davey Jones.
And the reef groans

at the sea,
because she
is still thrashing and thrashing
and crashing and bashing.

For the ocean
in her motion
of coming and going
seems forever growing:

the tide swells,
covers the shells,
and the lands again suffer
her torrential buffer.

And the sun devours
in a couple of hours.
It’s afraid,
of nothing but shade.

So it is quite a relief
that the coral reef
keeps the sharks away
whilst we swim in the bay.

It’s amazing how
the Persian Dhow
keeps itself afloat –
it’s a monsoon boat.

The arabic sailor,
like a jewish tailor,
cuts his way across,
without any loss.

From the Gulf of Persia,
through natural inertia,
in monsoon gales
he sets his sails.

This he dares
to bring his wares
to Mombassa and Dar
and Durban – so far.

At the old port,
by the fort
(Fort Jesus it’s called –
it’s strong and high walled)

is a strange mix
of Arabics
and Africans and Asians
and cross bred relations;

their dogs and their cats,
mice and rats,
all live in these parts
influenced by Arabic arts.

This old part of town
will never drown
in the sea of time
it’s still in its prime.

Time just stops,
by these perfume shops,
and at the wood carvers door,
by the fish merchants who sit on the floor.

The narrow streets
and their retreats
of narrower lanes
and yet narrower chicanes,

makes one recall,
above all,
of the pirate like ways
of the slave trading days.

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