I’m a moon

Five students were walking down along the Prom towards me. It was not yet 3.30 am. They were laughing and talking while one of them ran around them, encircling them likeĀ a sheepdog with it’s flock, his arms held hard against his sides. He was laughing as he did it. I’m a moon, he kept saying, I’m a moon. I saw another group around a lit fire on South Beach, it’s smoke mingling with the clouds overhead. When I walked back they had gone and the fire put out. There was just a trail of smoke lingering. They’d put it out with stones. The Beach is dotted with them. Little hillocks of stones, totemic cairns. Walking through the Castle Park I can see three figures in the gloom. One appears to be weeping, his head bent over, a girl in a sleeveless vest is comforting, her arm around his shoulders while another boy stands in front looking down. A tableau of grief. They are still, unmoving.

I thought about the review all night, in and out of hot, sticky sleep. I want to do it justice, her justice. My gut tightens with the fear of it. And yet, I have chosen to do it, isn’t there power in that?

Town was noisy. Both The Angel and the Why Not? were open. Kids spilling out onto the pavement, the road.

I’ve tow hours to make a start. A start, that’s all. There’s power in beginning, he wrote.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.