Woolly Head

Somedays I just can’t get my brain to function. Woolly. A mass of wool. I sit at breakfast staring at the sudoku puzzle getting nowhere. Other days I can do two or even three in one sitting. My body is much the same. My legs just didn’t want to walk. I, they did it anyway. It was slightly milder this morning though the cold still bites the end of my fingers. I don’t do well in the cold. Perhaps that is the explanation. Everything has frozen solid. I’ve got to go into work this morning. A broken morning. What shall I do inbetween? There is a mass of small things and big things to deal with. It all feels so disparate. Will it ever come together, or will I always feel this ragged?

A spent Christmas tree lies against several bags of recycled stuff outside those ‘troubled’ flats along Mill Road. It has turned brown. The bin men won’t take it, he says whenever we pass another tree that has been dumped, equally unceremoniously in our refuse area.

The hyacinth he bought me last week is beginning to open. It’s scent slowly begins to ooze. How I love it. That hint of sweetness. Ah, Spring. Shall you come soon?

Time for tea or will it be coffee this morning?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.