Busy, too busy to write this as much as I’d like. Applying for funding mostly. When is the work to be done? Yet, I’m grateful. Grateful for the possibilities. You have to be in it to win it, my ex-tutor’s mother used to say. So I put myself in it and wait.

I’ve been stopped by the police twice in the last week. They drive around in the early mornings, up and down the Prom. The first time they stopped me it was about a missing girl. Had I seen her? What does she look like? Long dark hair. No, I hadn’t, sorry. And I was. Poor girl, poor parents. The second time was this morning. I’d seen their┬ávan down by the harbour. That slow crawl. Lights on the ground. They called to me from their┬ávan just beyond the Castle. Was it me they’d seen earlier? Yes, I said. Why, are you looking for someone? I asked. Yes, the two police women answered in unison. Not me then, I replied. They laughed. Is it OK to make the police laugh?

A shopping trolley on the beach, it stands by the edge of a bonfire. Flames are fanned by the wind blowing smoke across South Marine. I walk into the smoke, eyes smarting.

I’ve worked hard this past week. Too many late nights, not enough sleep. But the evenings were beautiful, my senses heightened by being out beyond my usual bedtime. The headlights shining on the grass, lit up like a photogram.

And there has been such wind. The flags on the Prom are ripped ragged.

I watch a kite (bird) from my window. It lets something fall from its beak. The next day we find a dead shrew, blood oozing from its neck. Not a cat, he said, they rarely maim them.

I dreamt I was responsible for feeding a hoard of children. Symbolic of my work, too many projects requiring my attention, my nurturing, perhaps?

Finding debris the morning after the Carnival. A dark silence.

I heard a buzzing. He must’ve got into my coat somehow. He whirled around my bedroom floor, disorientated. A bee. I woke him. I need help. The buzzing alarms me. Don’t kill him. He’s on my bed. Seeking flowers, he’d flown onto my floral quilt. I’ve opened the window. Out he goes. Gone. Safe. He’s dying, of course, he said. Yes. He looked weary. World weary.

I’m tired. Eternal sleep would be nice. Soon. Very soon. Will you come?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.