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Victoria May

I happened to see it as I walked past this morning. A name. The Eddie Stobart Refrigeration truck parked outside Tesco’s loading bay had a name. Just like a train or a ship. Victoria May this one was called. Do the drivers always have the same lorry to drive? Do they make it their own, a home from home? They have to come a long way to get to us. All that way over the mountains. Was he waiting to be let in or was he on his way back? His lights were on, and I could see him in his high vis jacket sitting high up in his cab. I always think of her when I see one, I think her father used to drive for them. What a thing it must be to drive such a juggernaut.

The sky was turning blue as I made my way home. A lovely blue, a hopeful blue. And the morning is beautiful, colder but fresh and clear. He is agitated, BJ has given an unclear message. Go back to work he tells some, but don’t use public transport. Walk or cycle instead, he says. Here in Wales the message is clearer, we are still in lockdown, the restrictions are the same, at least for another 3 weeks. Will work be generous? All I can do is wait.

Several blackbirds were competing in song along Llanbadarn Road. Their music echoed across the thoroughfare. It was a real opening of day. Two screech owls also made themselves heard. The birds own that time. That liminal time. I walk in awe of them. They know who they are, their place, their work. I have yet to learn mine, perhaps I never will.

A girl of ‘strong sensibilities and not high spirits’, Jane Austen wrote, describing Anne Elliot at fourteen.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.