Stopped at traffic lights today I thought I saw my father in the red Honda 50 that went zipping across the intersection.

It could have been him, clubs strapped to the bike on his way to Lacken to drive some golf balls to the heavens or scooting up and down the road outside our house, hands of our little ones wrapped round his waist or nights after baby-sitting when he'd struggle to untangle the reflective harness then sail off into the dark while we carried with us, back into the house, his good luck, now.

Then the night a neighbour called and we went rushing to where a red Honda 50 lay on its side.

Today, for the length of a held breath I thought my father had come back.

In Stillness
By Michael Massey

A heron in flight catches my eye.

He flaps with awkward, lazy grace, gliding in wide loops, treading air before crash-landing in the shallows.

Now, I watch for him all the time.

I love his solitary nature, the way he lives in his own head, painting patience grey.

But I love him best when he stands as single-minded as a hermit poised, reminding me of an elongated quill, reminding me of my pen angled to the page, reminding me that in stillness, inspiration swims close enough to catch

The Glint Of A Winchester
By Michael Massey

I always wanted to be that dot in the distance slowly growing into a dusty figure on horseback, coming straight on through a parched landscape riding from somewhere going nowhere.

I always wanted to be that stranger dropping from the saddle a split second before a rifle report rings out and a bullet passes through the space he had just occupied.

I always wanted to be that stranger, handy with fist or gun, a loner, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting till the bushwhacker comes close enough to stare down the barrel of a colt 45.