We arrive in Dolgelley

the sun still rides the late peaks

and our day will soon be over. 

 

We ascend to the top floor

of a grey terrace pub

with its utility wardrobe whose door

cannot be closed. 

 

A late light informs the lace curtains

with its bleak projection. 

 

My brother's saddlebag has landed on the floor;

soon he will light a disgusting Falcon pipe,

make notes of the ride,

 

 

cycling stories of aching legs

proof shared between ourselves:

tonight a stone sink portraying its age with stains

the glandular hiss of water

ascending from the depths

tepid, uninviting. 

 

No teas or coffees in the room

but we make the bar in time

for shepherd's pie from a packet. 

 

The night dreams of itself

is pleased with the stillness

of the town asleep

with traditions we can only sense.

Tomorrow the long climb awaits.