They keep a watch all through the night. I see them as I walk by in the early hours. Sometimes there is one van, other times two. Sometimes the vans are empty, today there were two police officers standing beside them. There were a group of kids, well young adults, slightly the worse for wear by the decking in front of the Belle Vue. The officers were watching them, alert to ructions. Otherwise they keep vigil. They must be doing so. He is still in there. Still in that burnt out hotel. It is too badly damaged for anyone to go inside, apparently. And they are trying to get to him by removing brick by brick. Hard to imagine. Such slowness. Must it be so? They’re using a crane. It’s called Dylan Thomas. What must it be like for his family? Knowing he is still in there, decomposing.

I got warm walking this morning. There was no breeze. I saw the white belly of an oystercatcher, illuminated by the light of the streetlamp, as it fluttered across the sea. The morning smells of damp earth, Autumn is coming. We sat for a bit yesterday afternoon. I love to do so. The sun on my skin as we watched a small group playing bowls and a family playing tennis.

I began it. I feel my fear like a wall. But I persevere and allow the pleasure of the writing to come through. That forming, that sensing of words in my mouth. It is gorgeous, when I forget myself.

No self, no problem.

I lie in bed and welcome the emptying, the white space of nothing of non-being. It is restful.

Another early session. So be it.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.