You wander about in the snakes. The snappers and squeezers are wrapped in their patterns, sound asleep in the noonday sun, though there’s no denying the danger from such reckless behaviour. But the beauty is dazzling when you weigh up the scales and the coils call you in to possibilities you haven’t entertained since you were a child, and you’re sure that, for every Kaa with magnetic eyes and a split and lilting tongue, there was a Slippy or Twist who would help you out of scrapes. So, you curl up in the serpents’ lair with a Thermos of strong tea and a packet of Bourbons, the hint of a breeze hissing through whispering grass, assuring you that you will not die, and that your eyes will be opened like an angry God.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor