The Cobra

An Australian once taught me over a beer,
(in that self-assured know-it-all way)
‘If you stumble on a snake in the bush,
clobber the ground, bloody hard with a stick;
the vibration scares 'em—and they bugger off.’

But the snakes in China rarely took fright
and swashed about like lords of the manor
living in crevices, burrows and trees
or cars and boats and cupboards in houses.
They went wherever they damned-well pleased.

I'd like to say that it was I who was brave,
Alas, it was she who chopped with a spade
the keelback that lurked in our mailbox—
for Lettie defended our home from the kraits,
the pit vipers, pythons and cobras.

The dark-hooded cobra lay curled by the step,
flicking its tongue, tasting a scent in the air,
I recoiled,
leapt in fright,
and reached in my mind for my friend’s advice
(for Australians know of these things, they say),
I drew back and thrashed the earth with my stick.

I panicked, yelled and clutched my infant son,
Lettie appeared in a flash and took charge,
tut-tutting and armed with an oar (of all things),
she moved to bludgeon and beat the snake,
which spat and twisted,
turned and writhed and fought in fury.

I trembled with fear and revulsion
when the cobra's head hung limp in the gore,
and the memory still chews at my gut.
But the thrust of the story is this:
when an Aussie spouts his bullshit bushcraft,
remember that Ko Tong’s cobras stand their ground.

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