SNAKE CHARMED

SUDDEN MOVEMENT GLIMPSED, A SLIM SNAKE SLITHERING ALONG THE STONEY MULCH, 

STILL HOT SPRING SO THIS IS EXTRA HEAT AT 7AM STANDING POOL SIDE SURVEYING PLANTS,

SO I JUMPED IN THE DEEP POOL, RISING SAFELY, SWUM TO SIDE, PEER AT SAID SNAKE TO EYE ITS SIGNIFICANT MARKINGS

SHIMMERY COPPER SKIN TURNING TO OLIVE GREEN, GLISTENING BROWN AND SLENDER, A PETITE SNAKE BUT NO LESS A KILLER – WARNING!

TAKE A DEEP BREATH, SWIM SILENTLY – STORING IMAGE IN MY BRAIN AND WAIT FOR IT TO SLITHER AWAY SO I AM FREE TO EXIT

STRAIGHT UP THE STAIRS TO GOOGLE SOUTH EAST QUEENSLAND SNAKES, TO LEARN HOW DICEY WE LIVE IN OUR CREATED EDEN.

The artist and his wife tested by a monstrous dragon.

(c)copyright JM 2010

link to WHIP SNAKE I.D.

THE SEARCH FOR ALTERNATIVE GARDEN DESIGN IS ON MY MIND. THE KEY IS TO SEE THE SNAKE, WATCH IT AND BE STILL SO AS NOT TO SCARE IT INTO SELF-DEFENCE WITH POISON

My favourite Australian short story at : HENRY LAWSON’S SNAKE STORY (1896)

AND THEN FROM ATOP OF THE STEPS…MATING SNAKES!

yellow faced snake
BROWNS! 2018 SEQueensland
the-drovers-wife-stamp

Snake

D. H. Lawrence1885 – 1930

A snake came to my water-trough

On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,

To drink there.

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree

I came down the steps with my pitcher

And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom

And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough

And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,

And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,

He sipped with his straight mouth,

Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,

Silently.

Someone was before me at my water-trough,

And I, like a second-comer, waiting.

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,

And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,

And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,

And stooped and drank a little more,

Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth

On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.

The voice of my education said to me

He must be killed,

For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man

You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

But must I confess how I liked him,

How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough

And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,

Into the burning bowels of this earth?

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?

Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?

Was it humility, to feel honoured?

I felt so honoured.

And yet those voices:

If you were not afraid you would kill him.

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid,

But even so, honoured still more

That he should seek my hospitality

From out the dark door of the secret earth.

He drank enough

And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,

And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,

Seeming to lick his lips,

And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,

And slowly turned his head,

And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice a dream,

Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round

And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,

And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered further,

A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,

Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,

Overcame me now his back was turned.

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,

I picked up a clumsy log

And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

I think it did not hit him,

But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste,

Writhed like lightning, and was gone

Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,

At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

And immediately I regretted it.

I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!

I despised myself and the voices of my accursèd human education.

And I thought of the albatross,

And I wished he would come back, my snake.

For he seemed to me again like a king,

Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,

Now due to be crowned again.

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords

Of life.

And I have something to expiate:

A pettiness.

(This poem is in the public domain)

Drysdale
1944 Russell Drysdale – The Drover’s Wife – see AUSTRALIAN ART  

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