That summer seemed so short, standing on the roof of my grandmother's house.
A crow watches from the lane, its black eye half-sunken in pulped aubergine;
strange feast, gesture of street-opulence, only the Poya moon that night familiar.
Trains to Polonnaruwa from Colombo on the horizon, to monuments in stone.
Blind to the violet waves of this country: fake flowers at airports, love cake, ayubowans.
Little girls in white uniforms amble past mosques and churches, holding hands.
In the south-west monsoon, thunderstorms in Colombo are not what you might imagine.