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Grit

I often see the grit lorry as I walk in the early mornings. It’s not really a lorry, more like a little truck and it’s yellow. The grit comes out of a funnel at the back straight onto the road. I see bits of it on the pavements that have flown there from the wheels of cars. There was no need for it this morning, it wasn’t freezing so there was no ice. The moon is slowly losing its fullness, I missed its peak. I’m sorry about that, I’ve been distracted getting myself into a fever pitch of fretfulness over this article. I’ve sent it off so we shall see.

He was a star. He steadies my ship always.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.