Gavin Austin

She-oak

I see her brown eyes. Sometimes she arrives unbidden and stays for hours. Other times, I must conjure her from the shadows of memory as I whisper her name.

From my armchair window I watch a currawong dart from limb to limb, stabbing the twilight with its plaintive cries. It warns of rain and things foreboding. I stand to draw the curtains.

tree shapes
flow into obscurity
the streetlamp's halo

It is raining as I pull back the duvet to climb into bed. Large drops softly drum the windowpane with a soothing rhythm. Outside, wet branches of the restless casuarina murmur and sigh in the breeze. My rheumy eyes close as I surrender to the embalming darkness.

adrift
in a flood of night...
pine needles

The morphine is beginning to take effect. My pharmacist has added cherry flavouring this time, which helps me get it down. The pain gets greater now, and the medication clouds my mind. My blood slows as it sluggishly courses through my veins. But it is her. Here she is at the foot of the bed.

---

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.

---