The souls did from their bodies fly,
They fled to bliss or woe;
And every soul, it passed me by,
Like the whizz of my crossbow!

He can’t help it. Coleridge. It’s a kind of tic. He suddenly recites a line or two from his Rime of the Ancient Mariner. It’s always at the least expected moment, but in its coming you feel it before it arrives.

The beach is full of women in bikinis. Men in swimming shorts and Speedos. All the men in Speedos are middle-aged to older.

Coleridge is wearing black Speedos. He’s got a straw hat on. I realise that it’s mine. The Speedos are his.

“Put the crossbow down,” I say to him. “You’ll get us arrested.”

ice cream
and chocolate sauce
legs white as leprosy

Paul Conneally
8th October 2026
Cefalù, Sicily