[sand sultan]

Isale Eko

i.

Here is the ocean. Here are cliffs at the edge
of the ocean, and on them houses in rows

like fortresses. Here are mosques built
to appease the ocean’s lesser deities, courtyards

of stone and bougainvillea, shops sealed against tempests.
Here are gates with welcoming arms, drapes, gardens

that are all swings and slides. Streets, damp sand,
grit like crystals on paths. Egrets in a flock.

ii.

The haze arrives at four in the afternoon,
grows into mist, fills the cove’s cavernous space.

In the heart of the island a swirl of breeze
wraps the fading roofs like a shroud,

blurs brick into water as mist drifts inland
heavy with shadows, unseen

except for phantoms in the sand, and the palms
whose silhouettes graze outside the locked edifices.

iii.

We navigate along the steep cliff
as ancient walkways crumble into the sea –

here is no room for doubt. Far below
the tide is a thing of wonder, and the horizon,

like the taste of salt, a balm. What is trust?
Through the brambles, grass
that despite all blankets

the ridge. In its twists and turns the trail
holds grace ample for our modest perils.