Unsummery, that’s how it felt. The once perky grass had lost its bounce under a forgotten sun. Again. Starlings swooped and swirled in shifting clouds, readying themselves – for what they cannot say. And yet, quietly I stood – permanently listening – silently heeding their unsung song… until he came.

They say you can tell the makings of a man by his walk. If that is true, this one was unmade – like some crumpled puppet lolling along; the weight of his world pushing him down deep into the limp grass – his strings snapping to gravity’s reprieve. I know this walk, for I have seen its shadow before – like the starlings.

Brandy was an unusual choice I thought, as he gulped with gusto. Neat. His grubby sleeves eagerly dismissing unkempt drips, until the bottle lay dry and empty and alone like him at my feet. Silently, he sat answering questions unasked by me; only his occasional conniption punctured the unpollened air, briefly startling the black clouds away… only for them to reform like water on a slope. Gravity. Maybe it was Brandy’s fault he’d lost this fight? From here, the reasons are as hard to judge as the weight of a man’s punch or the hardness of the earth at my root… but he reminded me of how I feel in the winters – fed up and cracked and cold and tired – tired, from all the gravity.

What brings him here to me today to cry? Men don’t often cry – not even when the cheap Brandy’s gone; at least, not the men that I’ve seen – those boyish men cowering in groups, covering their cracks in hot air. Man alone is different. It would be unkind to ask him why, even if I could… and so he sat undisturbed by me – gutlessly watching the starlings swirl – casually catching his tears on unhugged sleeves.

What a strange thing for any man to unfurl from a pocket – two tiny silent maracas joined by rope. I hoped he had not planned on skipping here – here, on the saggy green carpet at my feet. Men don’t usually skip – well, not lazy boxers like him… 

Unexpectedly, he did not disappoint.

Up onto my cracked skin he climbed, desperately hugging at my core – occasionally glancing back towards the Brandy he knew was long gone like hope… From under familiar sleeves, his fumbling fingers grappled at my tired skin, gripping onwards – his plastic coat snagging as he went – cheap too, I imagine… yet on he fought. Undeterred. Until about my longest limb his silent maraca swooped –

I know knots, but none so tight as these. 

For an age he sat unwavered… until suddenly – and with one final silent sigh – the second maraca swished, decisively filling his jugular from above, and he was gone. His perch finally unfelt. Only the unforgiving scrape of his unskipping rope remained – pendulously gnawing its path deep into our flesh. Gravity. I have known a dead weight before. Once. She makes everything heavy; but this rope with handles of kin had never known such strain. Friction eventually killed her encouraged swing – our chaffed skin broken – my clear blood now drawn… until at last, unmoved, and finally at peace he hung. 

Above our heads the unwavering starlings swirl like a thurible, ephemerally filling the unhot air – they will not resist his lazy push again. And yet, all I can do is stand – still and waiting – not for some now fatherless daughter missing this rope, but for the Brandy-less tears of some passing dog-walker…

Undead – that’s how I am. People think because I am bare and brown and broken that I have gone, but they are wrong – they cannot see under my skin. I am here. They cannot see my workings, what’s beneath my surface – for there is plenty. The limp grass might well have lost its bounce, but the spring is awaited – she will come. Starlings should indeed swoop and swirl and dance, for they too know – they have been here before, like me – like I have always been. I will know a dead weight again. Probably. Gravity: pulling everything together, in equal and opposite attraction – Newton’s reaction; but as ever, unpendulous and still they will hang – suspended in her grasp – to pull everything apart.   

It’s hard to tell when they will come – the men, or the starlings. One cannot say for certain… but they will. Undoubtedly. Again.