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Sock

The single sock that was driven into the road is still there. It is beginning to lose it’s identity, soon to become a fixture, part of the tarmac. I know how it feels. My gut speaks of my inner struggles, it won’t settle. I am so easily tipped up. God grant me the grace of acceptance.

I dreamt I was walking late at night in Aberaeron. Except that wasn’t really were it was, it was too edgy for that sleepy place. At one point I came upon a group of shadowy men gathered around a brazier. I was scared. Who do we have here? one of them shouted, after catching sight of me. He was young with a laughing face but sinister too. As I turned and walked away he began to follow me. I’m an old married woman, I said, and you are beginning to frighten me, stop following me. He stopped, lifted his hands in a gesture of non-committal, and said, that’s brave of you, and returned to his cronies. I woke aware that I’d faced something and come out OK.

Flat has been cleaned, now to all those little jobs that need doing…..

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.