On Sleeping in a Dudley Travelodge

On Sleeping in a Dudley Travelodge

In Dudley’s modest, brick‑clad lane,
A Travelodge waits for night‑time rain,
Its sign a steady amber glow
Beside the car‑park’s orderly row.

I check‑in with a courteous nod,
The receptionist offers tea, not sod;
A keycard clicks, the door swings wide,
To a room where duvets hide pride.

The walls are plain, the curtains drawn,
A single lamp throws a soft‑worn dawn—
Not London’s rush, nor Brighton’s tide,
Just Black Country hum inside.

I slip beneath the crisp, white sheet,
The hum of distant lorries fleet,
And think of Staffordshire’s old mines,
While dreams drift in on tea‑stained vines.

No five‑star luxe, no marble floor,
Just honest rest behind the door—
A Traveller’s modest, British grace,
Found in a Dudley Travelodge space.