A Snake in the grass

My mother hated snakes, she hated them with a vengeance, I wasn't allowed to watch natural history programs on TV in case a snake was shown. Mind you she also hated Tony Blaire, my father and foreigners in general, generous with her hate was my mother.

But now she must be spinning like a dynamo in her grave, fit to light up the entire island! For here I sit in the grass, in a place were I am the foreigner, cradling in my hand a snake, a Barbour’s tropical racer, newly hatched, the colour of cheap milk chocolate and beautiful in the way only the very young are. The tiny snake, barely the length of my thumb, squirms round in my palm, its skin smooth as silk and gently warm in the afternoon sun. It rears its head, fear registers in its deep black eyes,it opens its mouth in defiance.

I smile and tuck it under a papaya leaf, go in peace little snake, there are many things to fear in this life, things that would eat you or kill you from ignorance, but you have nothing to fear from me, for in this respect I'm not my mothers daughter.