'Home' by Jackie Hales

Winter

A cold coming he had of it, that day, the motorway a tractor-towed tunnel of terrifying white-out. The car had finally been abandoned beyond the barricades — snow drifts blocking lanes, as if human-kind had been declared the enemy of the world, to be confined at last. He could no longer feel his feet, as he hauled himself through miles, barely able to wade through soft, wind-blown hills that wrapped him in their chilling embrace. Strangers stood sentry as he rolled his too-short legs over the last hurdle between the biting cold and the warmth of the waiting hearth. He staggered down the road, icicles hanging from his frozen beard, red-faced as Santa Claus, triumph his gift. There were no bugles or applauding hands, as he crossed his finish line, fist in the air, his silent snowflake crown a hero’s welcome. He vowed to go to the sun in the spring.

Autumn

“It’s cooling down,” they said, as the Australian heat crept below 35. He didn’t believe them. Surely not, when he could feel his body crying out for English rain, and desperate trees drooped as if gasping their last. Air con purred, as they finished their meal and rose to face the early afternoon. Outside, children played in the fountain, squeals of delight matching the squawks of strange birds. He longed to join them. The beach, resplendent in its golden glory, lay waiting, but the jetty offered shelter from the searing sun, so not even the foolish gathered like a British crowd, on deckchairs, under umbrellas or stretched out on towels to toast themselves. The sea seemed to whisper temptation, “Come to me”, as it softly lapped the empty sand, waiting for the brave to venture out. He was glad he had come, but it was time to go home.