The road from Colombo,
an olfactory hallucination,
ambles south
in a cloud of curry spice,
the saline scent of breaking surf,
and the humble miasma
of coir,
drying in the sun.
Past the neo-hippie haven
of Hikkaduwa,
jewelled with topless bathers,
glass-bottomed boats,
and the elusive, sweet,
suggestion of cannabis
on the warm breeze.
Through the old Dutch fort
of Galle,
roadside vendors
offer drinking coconuts,
hot samosas,
and tasty, dark
jaggery fudge,
made with palm sugar.
Buddhist temples
and images
sprinkle villages
with sanctuaries of calm
and contemplation:
respite from the wave
of tourists
who somehow impart
a garish patina of crassness
upon this gentle land.
At night,
from Tangalle Bay,
stars cascade
into a southern sea,
and are answered
by the bobbing lanterns
of night fishermen
in outrigger dugouts.
Mature waves break
on sandy shingle,
while their kindred march,
unimpeded,
to Antarctica,
eight thousand miles away.
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