Paradise

The palms end nearly on the waterline.
The beach is lightly littered with their leaves
and windblown, small, hard nuts. The sand is firm
beneath my naked feet, cool in the heat
that trembles on the land. White sand; beyond,
the Indian Ocean, blue till far away
it almost imperceptibly turns sky
and so returns to where the sun beats down
upon my head. It's perfect tourist heaven.
But huddled close among the palms I see
some ragged huts. A fishing boat, it's hull
a hollow trunk, lies on the sand between
us walkers and the people's hollow eyes
and empty stomachs. Here, the sand's not white.
There's dirt and litter, and the stinking beach
is one big, open sewer, full of flies -
so much for that first taste of paradise.