Gavin Austin

Unheld

you sigh
as you turn to leave
your eyes
writhing with words
refusing to be spoken

I see the bay is calm tonight; the water’s surface still, barely a trembling shadow from the lit marina.
 
Beneath the full moon, an old man sits on the seawall, a thread of nylon in his stiff fist, silently waiting.
 
A small fish breaks the surface, moon-flash on its scales. He hauls it in, yanks the barb from its mouth, and flips it back to the silver water. Leisurely, he rolls a smoke, places it between his lips, lights up, and puffs meditatively.
 
He can be found here most nights. From the window I watch him. At my keyboard, I sit ripping the hooks from hapless words, releasing them back to the night.

---

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.