by Emily McPhillips
The park is pale silver in winter; the grass weaving along, mixes of metallic chains and threads, a tough sort of armour. On a circle of walkway you will see: a black metal fence, a fountain, a host of benches as guests, and plaques with old names upon them: dedications and remembrances that stay rooted and still. I walk on and miss things - I hold onto things, too. I hold branches until they snap, I walk on ice still to be found on the edges of paths in the deep of the shade, and I travel along the lengths of helpful handrails that tell me when my route will change. By the old band stand my muscles ache from walking up flights of concrete steps covered by curved and empty trellis. I stand looking to the furthest point in the distance, to an electrical pylon that stands in the same manner that I do: elbows outwards, pointing fierce - only the way I see it, the pylon looks smaller than I, like a toy placed on a hill.
Emily McPhillips was born in 1985. She lives in Manchester where she studies Journalism at Salford University.