Motel

Neon flickers above the car park,
A modest sign that reads “Vacant” in soft red,
Where weary travellers pull up after miles
On rain‑slicked motorways, their suitcases sighing.

Inside, the reception desk bears a chipped laminate,
The clerk offers a key with a polite smile,
Tea stains linger on the Formica top,
A faint scent of polish and stale tobacco.

Rooms line the corridor like quiet cabins,
Each with a twin‑bed, a tiny kettle,
Colour‑coordinated curtains drawn tight against
The night’s buzz from the distant lorry yard.

Through the thin walls you hear a neighbour’s laugh,
A television murmuring a late‑night programme,
The occasional creak of a spring‑loaded bed,
A reminder that rest is fleeting here.

Morning comes with a pale light through the blinds,
The smell of toast drifts from the shared kitchen,
Guests exchange nods over mugs of strong brew,
Before they wander back onto the open road.

This modest haven, half‑way between destinations,
Offers a pause, a brief respite from travel’s grind—
A British motel, unassuming yet kind,
Where every guest finds a moment to unwind.