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The Bad Movement

Yet another phrase that entered my head as I woke. I never know to what they refer but I like that for that. Gift? Possibly. It is written. It is done. Afterwards other ways of tackling it come forward. It is enough. I did my best. Last night I dreamt of a friend, amongst other things. Not a close friend but there is an attachment. We were talking of one of her children. They have all been given biblical names but the one I called him, as did she (did I take the cue from her or vice versa) was wrong. I knew it was wrong in my dream but it was only on waking that I realised what his real name is. I cannot remember the rest, not like the dream from the night before when it all came forward, the immense richness of it – blackened hands, costumes, foreign lands, newly-acquired brothers’ in-law, old-fashioned sweet shops (was it a sweet shop?).

A colder morning than of late with a strong gusting northerly wind. I hear him outside the door preparing to go for his walk. The sky has opened up to blue and even some soon. It’s one of those immense Titian skies.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.