Return to Oman

From the opening movement of

Rimsky Korsakov's' Scheherazade,

I could see the departure of the dhows,

as they set sail for distant shores,

to India, Africa and beyond.

I climbed the jagged slopes

 of Jebel Akhdar to survey  

the empty quarter.

Amongst the date palm gardens,

I watched the falaj systems as

they meandered they way 

irrigating the parched land

of aridity with splashes of green.

I saw fortresses, mosques and houses,

communities of Omanis who lived

as they had for centuries.

To the coastlands where sardines

lay drying in the midday sun.

Thence south to the province

of Dhofar and the city of Salalah.

To gaze upon the palace of the

old Sultan which nestled

in the plains area with the Jebel

forming a formidable backdrop.

A place visited by the monsoon,

where coconut palms swayed in

a gentle breeze along the coastal road.

A nation renowned for its hospitality,

a generous people of great warmth.

The gem of the Arabian Peninsula,

hidden from the modern world

with all its hustle and bustle.