Angels from Tibet and Ireland

 
On the beach at Varkala  
December sun warming my bones  
I looked up at the cliffs  
all full of little Tibet now  
shopkeepers waiting patiently  
hoping to overpower the few visitors  
with their trite tourist offerings  
  
Last night it had been a young Tibetan  
who had saved me on his way home  
when death came calling  
an inch away  
on the other side of an invisible rope  
   
In the dark there was no hint  
from the high, narrow crumbling path  
which had become almost as familiar  
as those twice nightly power cuts  
But as I moved aside to let him pass  
he grabbed me firmly by the shoulder  
with strong brown hands  
just before I could take that next fatal step  
all the way  
to the roaring rocks below  
with my one foot hanging out into space  
his grip seemed impossibly strong.  
   
Don't go that way, mister, he grinned  
No, I don't think I will.  
   
And just as suddenly he was gone  
vanishing into the blackness  
before I had time to thank him  
   
This morning as I stocked up with batteries  
for the Maglite  
from the grubby little shop that sold everything  
and most things I didn't want either  
I recalled another episode  
when I had cheated death again  
thanks to Irish Annie
  
Counting out the rupees  
I remembered how she taught me  
never to try and swim underwater  
and laugh at the same time  
Back then, as I sank helplessly  
in near deadly hilarious convulsions  
arms flailing in thick brown tangles of kelp  
she had instinctively dragged me  
by the hair up towards the surface  
my lungs bursting
  
I'm so glad I didn't cut your hair shorter,  
she smiled
   
That had seemed funny too  
but death  
is never a laughing matter