Sean Wayman: ‘The Church and the Dhow’

The Church and the Dhow
Inhambane, Mozambique

Attempting an old town treasure hunt,
going on foot, in the late afternoon,
I come upon a Portuguese church
with the powdery look of a daylight moon.

Such is the gust of its old-world beauty
it seems to blow in from the nearby bay,
bringing a sense of blustery wonder,
the sequel to which is creeping dismay.

For, inside, graffiti covers the walls.
The darkest scribblings are still extant.
Inverted pentagrams brandish their horns
amidst a thicket of devilish cant.

And where there once were rows of pews,
and where the prelate’s lectern stood,
mere vacancy speaks of the long civil war
in which faith meant less than firewood.

Still, I climb to the top of the belfry
by iron ladders speckled with rust,
shifting my gaze from the gap-boarded platforms
to take in the inner walls’ heavenward thrust.

And when I reach the uppermost level
I sit on the sill and imbibe the view:
the old town’s roofs, coloured earthen-red,
contrast with the bay water’s greenish-blue.

In looking out there, I spot a dhow
which deftly unfurls its old-fashioned charm;
moreover, its graceful motion suggests
a pelican’s imperturbable calm.

I take it up as a hopeful emblem,
though as the dhow tacks toward the sea,
I remember the pewless nave below
and its charcoal-scribbled obscurity.

Sean Wayman