We are in a cheap hotel in Bournemouth. It is late October, the off season. There is toast in the rack and a full English going cold.

A woman in a pink shell suit sits by the window. Her compact is open in her hand. She is taking her time with the tweezers.

A young lad sits at the next table. He is wearing a wetsuit pulled down to his waist. His hair is wet from the sea. He has left his bodyboard leaning against the wall by the hotel’s front. He has the same breakfast in front of him. He has only eaten the bacon. He looks out of the window at the grey sea and then back at her face caught in the little mirror.

She catches him in the glass, gives him a look and carries on plucking her eyebrows.

a low sun
the sound of seagulls
by the refuse bins

Paul Conneally
25th October 2026