Split apart, with dry-cracked fissures and
ridges stretching wide before my eyes,
the bed both lured and challenged under
a burning sky. I walked, I struggled.
Madam, can you hear it? Can you hear
water? Listen. It has been raining;
the Zambezi comes, its on its way.
Winston was skilfully changing the
distance between us with dignity,
and a careful humour that put my own
clumsy offers of friendship to shame.
We laughed like small children delighting
in danger, reassured by silence.
On the far side of this dry bed
Livingstone Island: destination,
goal, sat perched on the edge
of the Smoke That Thunders,
Zambezi water continued to
roar wild over the falls; tumbling down
through the rainbows and billowing mist.
The Island beckoned, a green oasis
and not yet surrounded by water.
We crossed the Eastern Cateract on foot.