It’s fixed in his window and I pass it when I walk in the morning. A lit star it almost fills the casement. I love to see the lit up trees and ornaments through people’s windows, it gives me solace in this relentless dark and wind. It sounds like a storm out there. A great howling and lashing.

You didn’t tell me it was going to be windy, I said trying to suppress my irritation. After all it wasn’t his fault. I didn’t know, he said, they didn’t tell me either. The wind isn’t being personal, it is just being the wind. I push into it and it makes my walk long and arduous. Why am I doing this? And yet, the air is so fresh, I feel my aliveness. And the sea crashes and tumbles over the beach, the Prom and I am momentarily taken up by it.

He is still sleeping in the shelter despite the weather. He keeps his things neat. The various bags with his belongings are lifted up out of reach of sand or sea water onto the bench upon which he sleeps. His body is just a mound swaddled in blankets and duvets. Where are his compatriots? I will take him some mince pies tomorrow.

He carries them in his pocket. Taking them out when we eat and placing them on the table next to him. They are his comfort, his saviours from anxiety, from fear. I’m not brave like you, he says.

There are hyacinths in every room. I want to be overtaken by their scent.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.