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Big Moon

It was huge, or so it seemed and a little squidgy – not a neat circle. I love walking under moonlight – it’s an eerie, very white light that cleanses me of all greyness. A few mobile homes clustered around the harbour. They shouldn’t be there, he said at breakfast when I told him. I feel the same and yet I understand that need to be off and out on the road, I’d do it if I could and those vans do look cosy. I think of them sleeping tight as I trudge past. One had a little light on outside, like a house, a home. Neat.

We couldn’t go into the hotel for tea yesterday. Well, he didn’t want to and I get it, I do. But how I long to have a pot of tea served at a table, and watch him pilfer my little piece of shortbread that they place on the saucer. We had tea and coffee out of flasks in the car instead. A not unpleasant thing but not the same. Not the same. I waited for him while he abluted in the public toilets and let the sun shine full on my face.

I thought about my work, as I do all the time. It is easier, no more satisfying if I work with someone in mind. Later, as I walked I thought about words, made, formed letters. There may be something in it.

I heard the whooshing chattering hiss of the starlings roosting under the pier, and caught the stink of guano. And there were the pip squeaks of the oystercatcher breaking in between the cacophony. The night is alive with birds.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.