Madame Sasoo, sombre, but determined
to overcome her nibbling inhibitions
and have the warm Indian Ocean lick
at will about her body, does not undress, but dresses up

from ankle to neck in brightly figured rayon
and wears her manly shoes to wade
from shore of drums into the tilt of water
with elbows aloft, all her attention below:

she is not young, but bears herself
with subtle dignity, though her costume clings, grows fat,
as the weight of water starts to rock
against her, and bullies her from left
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to right, so she is like a high-wire walker
riding out the admonishments
of the deluge, with grim composure,
holding that perfect damask mark

in the middle of her forehead level
over the waves. At which stage, her doubts
regroup and call her back to the shore
where her towels, and Seiko, are safe