Sabita's Story

Besmirched by thick, brown mud,
her skirt – once orange, like the sun,
as she stoops to quench her thirst;
a stench of death turns her stomach
but even still, she drinks. The river,
changed beyond all recognition; gone –
its banks where she’d bathed, washed
her clothes – where he’d built their home

and now, even her makeshift shelter
swept away, and she curses the friend
that in a few short hours became
her most deadly foe; gorging itself
on relentless rain, its greed growing
day on day, consuming cattle, crops,
bridges, shops and roads.

Fields, and orchards – a week ago
rich in grain, and fruit, submerged
by turgid waters; a timber pier...
a tiny boat from which they cut
the reeds they’d sold – reduced
to so much flotsam. Tables, chairs,
and pictures...bloated bodies,
floating downstream.

Through the brutal debris of theirs’
and other people’s lives – she wades,
waist deep, searching for her child;
his father she buried yesterday.
On her head, a bundle – dry clothes
for him – all she could save, but
more precious than pure gold.

She prays she’ll find him soon...
for aid to come, but even then,
when the floods do recede, her fight
for survival carries on in a world
where man is his own worst enemy
where tribe would slaughter tribe.

‘Amen’, sticks in her throat...
Deep inside, her unborn son
kicks, impatiently, at her ribs.
‘His will be done,’ she whispers;
his chosen name – the breath
between her lips.