The bell strikes every time
a quarter-hour of night has gone
there have been two rain showers
and three times a milky moon
broke through soft cloud
like a highwayman
tapping my window-pane.
A woman shouted in a grey yard,
four lorries pulled their loads away,
setting their diesels
for another part of the country
and once, at four forty-eight, I dozed
then twitched awake again
regretting
I wasn’t with you.