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Frost

It is very beautiful, the world is almost ossified by it. Chancing to look up at one of our velux windows in the roof I did a double-take – the frosty deposit looked like a layer of silver glitter, and a thick layer at that. It reminded me of my childish joy of such things and my memories of the smell of glue (was it Gloy gum?) when covering cards and Christmas objects in it and how the unstuck bits were caught up in old newspaper and how beautiful it looked en masse like a pool of shimmering argent. I don’t like the slippery surfaces but the look of frost is stunning. It doesn’t blacken and dirty like snow but remains pristine in its whiteness. Grass, leaves, tree trunks are caught in its frozeness and the ground is hardened, even the shail thrown by the waves onto the Prom. I like the cold hush of it all, though my fingers smart even under three layers of gloves. Along North Road a robin bounced along beside me. I stopped for a while to see what it would do. It hopped about a bit then flew off. The flat is cold. We hunker down with hot water bottles – he in his room and me in the studio. The day stretches out deliciously. I have much to do and for now the chores have been done.

She didn’t call. Don’t feel bad. I do understand. Honest.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.