Alone by the fire he crouches
Absently he considers his rifle
Perhaps this is the last time
He will sit thus
Appraising his gun and his memories
For dawn will send him off again
To another rendez-vous with danger

For to him she is a woman
With a dozen irresistible faces –
The various moods of woman –
He being male, she female,
How can he help but go to her?
Again and again: reaching out for her
He must touch her,  smell her

Yet this time her feel is different
Containing a warning sting
Her smell is sharper, more distinct
Telling him that this time she is serious
No longer is it just a game
That matters have changed
Nothing now remains the same

Still, though he hears her message
He has no choice but to leave
Like one married to the village witch
Her evil ways he knows well
Knows too, that after he has loved her
He will be so shaken as to vomit
Filled with contempt for himself

Trembling with shock and distaste
He will tell himself that this is –
the last time he will touch her –
Yet knowing that he will surely be back
Loathing, dreading her, yet as
addicted to her as to opium
Without her he no longer can be

High up in the hills of Angola
He has gone in search of her
And there she was, eager and waiting
Dressed in a robe of rock
That spun thousands of feet
Down to the bosom of a violent death
Her windy voice screaming her cruel scorn

Again he has trailed after her
To a lonely bush by the Zambezi
Stalking her deep in the savanna grass
Her form that of an angry lioness
Her scent the sharp acrid smell of danger
Her claws like sharpened daggers
Glistening evilly in the bush

Again he has followed her to blazing Somalia
Deep into the smoke of a country gone mad
There her eyes flashed crimson
Like machine-gun fire in the gloom
Her voice the staccato rat-tat-tat
Of silenced bullets hitting home
Then her smell was that of gore

In a thousand dark places he has been with her
When her footprint was that of a demon
With a demon’s wild eyes and wild hair
With the myriad facial expressions
Of all the madmen in hell
She is what remains behind,
When the bloodlust rules man

When all the precepts of man are gone
When love and deity are lost
Her echoing voice is all that remains
Scornful laughter as he teeters at the edge
Hers is the footprint of the devil
Her perfume of blood wilfully spilt
Lost in anger and in hate

Oh, how he loathes her!
That evil, most evil of women,
The waster of so many strong sons
Poisoner of the village well!
Yet after all has been said
He is a man, and she a woman
What hope has he?