Gavin Austin

Soaring

Almost unrecognisable, his mother looks old. Not the smiling woman who made us orange cake and cordial as after-school treats. All his father can manage is a small nod. I read his eyes, see he is unable to comprehend. His boy, just three weeks short of his twenty-first, almost off a probationary motorcycle licence.

black bitumen
the sweeping bend
leading out of town

A chill wind whips at coats and gripped umbrellas, lashes about the bowed heads and slumped shoulders. I stare at wreaths near my feet; the sweet fragrance of spring flowers lodges in my nostrils. Slowly, I wander back to the shadows beneath the oak in the schoolyard. Sunlight steals through the foliage, traces secret patterns across scuffed shoes. Two youngsters swear a solemn pledge, nicking thumbs with the blade of a pocketknife, pressing together bleeding pads.

the wingspan
of a wedge-tail's shadow
unmapped hills

---

About the Author

Gavin Austin lives in Sydney, Australia. Gavin writes short fiction, short plays, and poetry. His work has appeared in many Australian and international publications.