School 3

Beside the school there was an immense fat grassy slope on which there grew tufty pieces of bush and there was a cracked paving stone path leading down to the burn. Big fat grass all wet with dew. This was across the lonely road from that awful swing park.
This hill rose tumultuous and dull up to a row of dumb wet trees waving half-heartedly in a little whisk of wet wind. The whole place was full of lovely greengrass sorrow and was utterly empty of anyone. No-one ever there except solemn afternoon dogwalkers who almost despaired of the place or dim schoolboys who lounged on the banks of the stream and sometimes pissed in its waters. At 9 in the morning when all the kids were in school it was empty as a desert and seemed to be weeping with drippy loneliness, o the queer and solemn humpback hill, o the trickling friggin stream, a semiurban crockashit no doubt.
There was a gap through the trees which led to the Suicide. The Suicide was where this big wide grassy slope was simply dug away, as if some colossal paw had plumbed the earth or a nameless prehistoric avalanche had hollowed out the gloomy hill. It was steep and wide and caved in and hollowed out and simply dangerous if you didn't know what you were doing. In fact the Suicide was just a big cliff no more no less. A hollow hole in the head of the hill. At the bottom of it was the burn.
Green and swishy and fat plumby boom with a gaping wound called Suicide. Imagine such a gloomy name for such a lush and grassy brightgreen hump of hill, but it really was such a dripsome and awful and nameless place simply overlooked for its secret ugliness.
A carved-out cliff soaked and shrubbed in itself and bore the name of murder of thyself amen.
Winds whished over the trilly trees, grass conspired to get a bit wetter somehow. Birdies trilled in a stupid mournful shrill in the boughs, white sky whitened, rainclouds dispersed, sniffling noses sniffled, almost crying.
Nothing happened. The stream flowed glebbing to itself carrying refuse and corpses downstream, unnoticed. A heightened sense of nothingness, a breezeful wind, a sodden grass. Maybe the birds can smell the scent of the pinecones or tweet and spread guano in the soil. Maybe a trudger trudged by sadly leaking on the asphalt road.
Moods shifted windily, air tightened and whitened lofted and easily lost, all an epitome of sadness.