Yes,
the sea too is here
in the sand on the shore
on the rising of the tides
in the very air,
I believe
as I
breathe
that the sea is here.

I reach up
to the bell and it sells me its melancholy still tinged with the smell of spice from some distant shire
and the whispers of smoke that signalled a welcoming fire, the owl hoots as if in sympathy for the sightless.

If I am blind then I have touched upon ancient mystery in this foreign land which feels like home to me.

In the heat, in the haze and wandering through the winding maze
I see a shadow or maybe a figure, never sure which one is bigger, but nevertheless,
I see.

It is of course, a trick played by the sea upon the albatross, a mirror into which It takes its reflection as mine.

I came upon, sometime in the early morning, an elderly giant who told me, that each movement of each grain of sand on the shore is one more than the movement of one grain before and it appeared to me to be true.

The steps march ever upwards,
making furrows in the whitestone, a million tired limbs coloured by the days length and the clock move slowly.

Mozambique cuisine, no finer table have we ever seen and
sounds from a radio behind the green doors of number 32, the street name like the radio station unknown, but the music plays melancholy and I am back to the toll of the bell and the smell of spice.