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.