[Trevor Conway]

Wildebeest always look so ragged,
as if freshly flung from a fight.
Here, they face another,
swelling the moment with fear.

In this lumpy river, a rough shape
might be a crocodile’s cobblestone back.
It might be just a cluster of rock
or the black flank of a restless wave.

One leaps, yearning for pasture –
with such vigour it seems to dream
of cleaving the river’s width in two.
Thumping hooves, gallant splashes,
a riot of water – some are gripped,
dragged away to a hideous Hades.

Others feel they’ve steered clear
till the lateral gravity of the river
gives them cause to think again,
pulling them closer to jaws that,
a moment before, seemed too slow.

A stalemate unfolds in the shallows:
a leg clamped in gaudy teeth.
Neither advances – a still life,
each imploring the other’s fatigue.
But the reptiles are in cahoots:
another looms, and with a snap
quick as a reflex, the head is under,
with nostrils burning inches below
a vast redemption of air.

The bank delivers rich relief,
weary hope, to those who clamber,
dogged and drained, back to grass,
only to face new traumas
across the lumpy plain.


[Is there an argument for switching the order of the first 2 stanzas? Or even removing the first? Thanks.]