Bombay Arrival

Slow-hooved across the carrion sea,

Smeared by the betel-spitting sun,

Like cows the Bombay islands come

Dragging the mainland into view.

The loose flank loops the rocky bone,

The light beats thin on horn and hill;

Still breeds the flesh for hawks, and still

The Hindu heart drips on a stone.

Around the wide dawn-ridden bay

The waters move their daggered wings;

The dhow upon its shadow clings –

A dark moth pinioned to the day.

False in the morning, screened with silk,

Neat as an egg the Town draws near,

False as a map her streets appear

Ambling, and odourless as milk.

Until she holds us face to face –

A crumbling mask with bullet pores,

A nakedness of jewels and sores

Clutched with our guilt in her embrace.