Gavin Austin
Change of Season
Tears tremble in my mother’s eyes as she drives me to the station. Her youngest leaving home in a small town for big city life. She parks, hugs me fiercely and says she will feel suddenly old, with no young voices or laughter through the house. I had seen my mother cry only once before. When her best friend, my teacher’s wife, left the district for a new posting. My mother’s gaze is intense as I avoid her eyes and climb from the car. I promise to phone.
The breeze is cold on my face as I sit waiting on the wooden seat. I hear the whistle, see the train’s light tunnel through the morning mist. My breath rasps in clouds to the bare twigs overhead. The platform suddenly shudders as the train skids to a halt. Gathering my bags, I take a seat by the window. The carriage lurches forward, gathering momentum. As I watch the station fence palings flicker by, I wonder what churns in my stomach. Sadness, apprehension, or excitement?
winter leaves
drift from the branch
find and ride
those shifting winds
that transport the spring
About the Author
Gavin Austin lives in Sydney, Australia. He writes short fiction, short plays, and poetry. His work has appeared in many Australian and international publications.