Stopped a while in the midday heat,
glad of a puncture,
the man in the house beckons us in,
puts on the kettle.
We struggle with the tyre.
Man in paint soiled overalls,
sleeves rolled up, down on one knee,
man in lycra shorts, knees together,
like a woman on a sofa,
heads and hands in harmony,
share in the bowl of water
the drama of watching for bubbles.
Glue, rubber, talcum,
we exchange our lives
over great mugs of tea.
He laughs with incredulity
that we have crossed sea and land
just for the privilege
of cycling past his humble kitchen.
His daily grind become
part of our great adventure.