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Fires (2)

There have been a few that I’ve seen, left burning on the beach well into the early hours. I asked him if he used to do it as a student and he said no. So many do it now, setting fire to the felled trees or branches that the tide washes in or creating one from a cairn of pebbles and rocks. I love the smell. A sharp, acrid stink it also promises warmth and comfort and light. Perhaps its a primal thing, both they’re doing of it and my enjoyment of the smell, an innate longing to form a source, a focus of safety against the dark.

It was written on the back of a parked van on Queen Street. Knight on the Tiles it read. It bemused me a little till I made sense of both the drawing and the blurb that followed. Where they tilers? No, they are roofers. A Knight of the Tiles it should read, I suppose. How they laughed when someone suggested it. Kitsch but nice, eh?

It was alright in the end, I did it. And she was kind, it helped. As did he. Always. I’m tired this morning. The weather is enervating and I woke 5 times for a pee. Porridge the night before, you see, it’s a bugger. Heigh Ho work to do. Onward.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.