It’s always quiet when I walk early on Monday mornings. Everyone is abed. It was still this morning, cold but still. The firmament was wide open. No moon but thousands of stars. I stopped and paused a few times, just to feel my breath, smell the air and close my eyes. It is beautiful to be out there in the night-becoming-day though I never relish starting out. I want to stay in, my body wants to stay in in the warm and the light. But once I am out it is fine, I find my step, my frame adjusts and I move through space happy to be out.

The man who has been sleeping in the space under the castle (what is it a meeting place, a shelter? Either way it is open to the sea.) was up and walking about. His sleeping bag was still strewn across the bench and unzipped awaiting his return. Was he smoking or pissing? I cannot say. I felt a frisson of discomfort, could it have been fear, as seeing him restless. I am used to his sleeping form, a slumbering, seemingly benign presence. Awake what would he be like? What would he do? He did nothing. He clearly keeps himself to himself. I fantasised about bringing him food. How would he react? I want to offer comfort and yet am awkward about it. How far should I transgress into his privacy? What must it be like sleeping to the sound of the sea? Cold. But the air is clear, clean. I hope he is safe.

Her initial reply was cold. Well, I thought so. And then she wrote again with such warmth. I am touched.

And she? Nothing as yet. Be patient. Her life is full and for that I am pleased. The sky is a little blue with trailing wisps of white clouds. Accept it all as it is. That is my tenet today. Be at peace with what is. And wait. All will come about.

I struggle to get off to sleep now that it is light in the evenings. It is OK. I let myself drift and listen to the birds. I watched a squirrel, who I initially thought was a cat, as it bounded along a branch. They are so fleet, so nimble, so trusting. And last night I did some Reiki. I tried to send some healing to him for his nose. But he still complained of it this morning. It will heal. It will.

As I walked along the Prom this morning in that complete dark a white feather fell from the sky. A perfect light fluff of whiteness. I touched it before it fell slowly to the ground. Some people believe feathers are evidence of an angel nearby. A nice thought. I marvelled at it purity. White against black.

I finished it. Not before I had a hissy fit though. I wanted it to be too perfect. It has become a weighty symbol. Too much so. And it doesn’t matter, not really. Nothing does.

The news was horrible, horrific. My loves, foaming at the mouth. I do not understand. It is beyond my understanding. What can I say? What can I do? Bear witness? Is it enough? Is it ever enough?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.