Gavin Austin

Transience

Lady sniffs me. I feel her velvet nostrils on my neck. Her breath is warm and clover-sweet. She nuzzles me. I laugh, before my grandfather lifts me onto her back. It seems Lady knows she must walk carefully. I sit; legs splayed in the big saddle, and grasp a wisp of silver mane. Grandpa tells me to hold on as he leads us as far as the five-bar-gate. There he eases me from Lady’s back.

bare feet
among capeweed daisies
small adventures

I ride Lady down to the creek. She sinks her muzzle between the willow reflections as she drinks deeply. I look for ripe blackberries among canes spilling over the rock. Lady paws the water, her sleek coat gleaming gold. She rubs her head against my shoulder, and I scratch behind her ears, before I place my boot in the stirrup and swing into the saddle.

Getting off the school bus at the corner, I walk home to find a strange car in the driveway. Mum tells me Lady is sick. I read my grandfather’s ashen face. Lady is down, and won’t get up. I touch the sweat behind her ears, and where it darkens her flanks. Tugging on her halter, I urge her to stand. Lady looks at me, her brown eyes large. I stroke her white blaze and the pink part of her nose. She groans.

The bowel has twisted, the vet announces. Grandpa grimaces and looks away. He tells me to go back to the house. The vet goes to his car. Begging Lady to stand, I tell her we will go down to the creek, cool off in the waterhole. The vet returns and looks at Grandpa. Grandpa slowly nods.

setting sun
the darkening trail
to unknown hills

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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.