Rain (555)

It smelt of autumn this morning. The wind was blustery and too much for my puny umbrella. And it didn’t feel like the 19 degrees that they’d promised. I walked but longed to return home. I’m not quite right. A bladder infection, I think. Everything aches. The aching makes me acutely aware of my skeleton, the bones of me. And I’ve a touch of sciatica too. Age. Age hurts. Or at least if not hurts it reminds one of infirmity. The approach of it. I’ve much to do, else I’d go back to bed and sleep it off.

A pot of tea soon and then get down to it. The piece is still clumsy in its rawness. I’ve much to do.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.