Half Moon

The wind was not what it was yesterday but it is still strong. The fallen tree of yesterday has been lifted from the road and it’s chopped remains lay in a heap in the garden from which it fell. A sadness. The road parallel to the North Prom has been blocked off. Perhaps there has been some loosened masonry or something. It is endless. The weather is always taking its toll on this town. Battering it, bashing it. Over and over the sea hurls its sandy debris onto the Prom. Time and again it is cleared only to return. I walk into the wind, pushing hard against its might. It tires me. Another walk up to work in an hour or so. Oh, good, he said at breakfast, you can do some work first. Yes, maybe. I was almost blown off my feet twice yesterday walking up and down the hill. It’s the point at the top just by the National Library that the gusts get you. Catching you unawares. I call out. To whom I don’t know. Ah, I cry as my feet are blown forward, tottering, as I try to keep my balance and save my back. But I did it. I did it. He was a little better yesterday. He just slept and slept. As he is doing now. Sleep is good.

An alarm was ringing as I walked home. A house alarm or a car alarm? A house one. It keened, a sharp wincing, insistent shouting. Nobody responded. I think they are away. A red light on the box outside flickered. And still that panicky sound. No one was about this morning, except for a group of kids on Northgate Terrace whom I didn’t see but heard. Wow, one of them said, shouting, his voice echoing, ricocheting off the houses.

The moon was a half. Sometimes hidden behind clouds, other times out, resplendent. Look at you, I say out loud. Look at you.  

Most of the time I don’t know what I am doing. I just read. I read and read hoping that it will lead me where I am meant to go. I get moments of something like truth, certainty but then it is gone. I will take a notebook with me, try automatic writing, as they suggested, get it down, before my brain takes over with its stultifying judgement. I will take my books, my notebook and a sketchbook. I long for it. I even think I dreamt of being there last night. He says he will be alright. It is hard to leave him. But I must. Just some time alone. Is it too much to ask?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.