Out of Ubud the long straight road
To Penelokan is a good fifty miles of up,
Until the town itself, precariously stowed
On the lip of the huge crater’s deep cup.
In the centre, the still-smouldering cone
Of the live volcano; to the right, a blue cres-
cent moon-shaped lake, and to the left, black stone-
cold lava in a sheet. A site of paradise, no less.
I gazed; and could have gawped more, had
A local boy not tried (“Only look...”) to eke
Out a life by selling me his gew-gaws. I cussed
Him away, rude and imperious. This was a bad
Move: clouds fell over the valley and peak
Like a circular shroud. The Balinese gods are just.
To Penelokan is a good fifty miles of up,
Until the town itself, precariously stowed
On the lip of the huge crater’s deep cup.
In the centre, the still-smouldering cone
Of the live volcano; to the right, a blue cres-
cent moon-shaped lake, and to the left, black stone-
cold lava in a sheet. A site of paradise, no less.
I gazed; and could have gawped more, had
A local boy not tried (“Only look...”) to eke
Out a life by selling me his gew-gaws. I cussed
Him away, rude and imperious. This was a bad
Move: clouds fell over the valley and peak
Like a circular shroud. The Balinese gods are just.
(29.7.1997)
