it’s been years since my father

called Galle home

since sepalika flowers

bloomed in the night

and stole into his dreams

with their scent

only to carpet his path

in the morning

with their petals
years since the toddy tappers

climbed the coconut palms

and lowered the clay pots every morning

years since he walked to school

with his brothers in pressed shorts

crisp white shirts and black ties

and poked holes in the pots

then stood underneath to drink

the fermenting coconut nectar

more of it ending up

on my father’s shirt

than in his mouth
now he tastes the frost of a Canberra winter

sometimes snow, always cold

minus eight degrees celsius over night

creeps into his shoulder

and makes it ache and creak with

a longing for the tropics

and the warmth of monsoon

rain on his face