The Cinnamon Gardens Commute

I remembered, this morning,
the early morning walk
from six upon three (6/3) Wijerama Mawatha
to number six Gregory’s Road.

I smelt again the texture
of the Sri Lankan dust
stimulating my nose;
the pungency of rotting vegetation
piled by storm drains
that awaited the next
monsoonal overflow;
and the eye-watering sharpness of a length
of burning coir rope
hanging outside a small roadside lean-to
so that customers could light
their purchased beedis,
made from the sweepings
of the nationalised Benson Hedges factory,
catering to the addictive needs
of the working class.

This, and the deep brown sweet aroma
of stacked pieces of jaggery fudge,
home-made from coconut sugar,
blending in exotic melange
with the spicy call of
devilled cashew nuts:
all proffered by a smiling proprietor
with a name as exotic
as his varied wares.

I pass Horton Place,
and stare in envious wonder
at Professor Arthur C. Clarke’s
satellite dish,
as the kerosene man passes me,
his bullock cart lending
strange contrast in a land
where paradox is commonplace.

Turning onto Gregory’s Road,
I am flanked by a phalanx
of pink cassia, breadfruit,
frangipani, teak, various mimosa,
and the towering cinnamon trees
that give the area its name.
The distinctive call of the knife-sharpener,
brings cooks running from their busy kitchens
to take advantage of his curb-side trade.

The fecund olive trees in the garden
of the High Commission
are dropping their abundant fruit:
a neon flash of parakeets bursts
from laden branches,
as I start another
long day at the office.