The crocs that roam these silent slit laden waters take the village children for dinner, snap, snap! Quietly and with a hidden fineness. Without a plip or plop they are gone. Five go swimming but only four will be tucked up tight in bed.
Too sick, too poisoned, too pained to heed the advice I floated on my back in a baptism of relief. The thousand bites and punctures pulsing in time with my heart as the Sepik coiled through the plains as unctuous and uncaring as Eliots’s strong brown god.