Cereal box camping (Cymru am byth)

We had to eat four boxes of Cornflakes,
the coupons were cut on dotted lines,
five long weeks for the tent to arrive,
six weeks in the garden each summer.

Twelve years later, bungee clipped
to the petrol tank of a Honda,
shoe-horned between ruck sacks and bin bags
we vibrated into Wales.

The weather was dripping forked lightning,
clawing its way down Snowdonia,
the light and birds had all but gone.
I pegged the last guide rope
as the heavy hiss of rain chased us in.

Laughter cut through musty canvas
zipped together in sleeping bags.
Youth in hibernation waiting for warmth,
hostage to a mountain squall.

Torch light revealed the finest mist,
dispersed droplets forced on fabric,
passing through the filter paper walls,
everything was wet with shining examples.

Thunder clapped us into action,
riding down village bound,
rain-dancing for a bed
and begging for a breakfast.

Are you married she asked,
with one open eye,
then answered herself with a no,
deduced from ring-less fingers.

Separate beds then she said
as she gestured us in,
I have the room below yours;
you’ll find we have creaky floors.

Breakfast was stuffed with silent smiles,
twenty pounds paid at the door,
leaving like school kids on the last day of term,
featherlites left in a drawer.