Evatra, Madagascar

The view is beautiful, a photo made for dreams
where breakers charge the beach, wave upon wave,
in playful threat that tumbles into gleams
of white teeth smiles of children which engrave
the memory and windblown hair that streams

above the crests. The sand-bar echoes sea
into the still lagoon where the wind skims
the surface into rippled tracery
of ducks and drakes. Later, as the sun dims,
the moon lays on the lake an icy sheen.
But other eyes observe a different scene.

This is a prison where the inmates own
no crime but still are sentenced poverty;
the sullen villagers are daily shown
the passing tourist's latest novelty -
the video camera, watch or mobile phone

still light years out of reach of those who dwell
distant as aliens from outer space,
so far apart their worlds. Those who can sell
the tourist services, however base,
convince themselves that they are doing well

but all will suffer. Nobody enjoys
their poverty except it seems the fate
of all, which every tourist wave destroys.
When sense of deprivation causes hate,
what will they think and do as men, those boys
with home-made boats on string their only toys ?