Smell of Rain (5)

It rained a little as I walked, not heavy but enough for me to zip up the hood of my waterproof. I love the smell of rain on sun-dried pavements and gardens. The scents it throws up are many. It’s such a hopeful smell, a life-full smell. Earth, it is the smell of earth and things growing at such a rate it would astound us if we could but see it in the microcosm. Sometimes I think I can hear it.

There was a moth in my room when I woke. It flapped about bashing into light and then window before disappearing. I woke it again when I returned and switched the light back on, it flew up again landing on teddy, then bed post. I captured it lightly in a cloth and switching out the lights took it to the window and let it loose into the cool dark. We were told as children that the dust from their wings comes away if we pick them up and that they would cease to be able to fly. I hope that myth is but that, a myth. Fly away. Fly away Peter, fly away Paul. I dreamt of cars, of driving, of familiar roads becoming unfamiliar, of being chased but of feeling intrinsically safe and of solving things easily, no not easily but knowing deep down that they would be. Do you understand why sometimes I don’t want to wake? Work. Must work now. Onward.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.