They were standing on a street corner halfway down Pier Street. The woman who was talking had a pair of suede fuchsia high-heeled espadrilles hanging down from her right hand. She was talking to a man and a woman. Her high heels had been replaced by a pair of salmon pink ballet pumps. She was middle-aged and her voice slurred a little. It was 3.00 am. She reached over and embraced the couple beside her. You are my soulmates, she said, you GENUINELY are.

I saw something whirl on the pavement ahead of me. I was striding down Northgate Street. I thought it was a feather or a piece of litter. It was a moth, on its back whirring.

We sat on the ‘Coll field’ in the sometime sunshine and he talked about cricket. I love to hear him ‘witter on’ (Dinnerladies, Victoria Wood, may she rest in peace) like that. He sounds happy, or if not happy, content. We watched as groups of Muslim men kept appearing and heading to what must’ve been a prayer meeting in the little hut behind the Pavilion. Some sat outside on the wall or talked by their cars. It was an amiable atmosphere, calm, masculine. White lines had been drawn on the playing field. A crocodile of nursery school children walked past, on the path below us.

All my work is done. And there is a chance of something unexpected coming. We shall see. So often they come to nothing. But it is nice to be considered. Perhaps she will be put off by having to deal directly with me. Who knows? I like to think it might have pleased him though. That will do me.

No sun. A grey heaviness. I watch a rook on the roof preening. It threw me yesterday. It’s because I don’t understand it. I will try. With calmness. There is nothing to be afraid of. Ever.

I walked thinking, I want to know my death, to carry that knowing with me, to let it help me to see that nothing really matters. Whatever I do here will pass, become nothing. And that is good. That is as it should be. My trace will be as if it never happened. Passing through. I am just passing through. Let it be so. Home soon. Let me come home soon.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.