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Shelter

It isn’t much of one, it barely protects them from the wind, but it is dry, there is a roof. There were two bodies sleeping in it this morning. I gasped when I saw their small cocoons of makeshift blankets and sleeping bags. It was minus 2 at least. I would die, I think from such cold. Do you get inured to it? My heart goes out to them, I want to wrap them up in blankets and hot water bottles. It must be desperate. Can they bear it? One has his belongings in a neat row along the outer wall of the shelter, lines and lines of bottles and bags. The other man, I presume it is a man, was just a sleeping form, bagless. Will someone bring them tea? I think so. People are kind here. I know it.

My internal wranglings are nothing to their plight so I’ll say nothing, except to bear witness as I do to the work of others is a privilege and at times it is enough.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.