There's an intimacy here

of tyres on gravel,

one must be ready for arrivals

but most episodes come to nothing

then the ignoring silence is complete.

 

Your chair still supports you

in its jacket of dull brown leather

no news in the lane today

nor any other day and yet

the sound persists, a memory

of wide sweeps on country house drives

a sad lament of murders in libraries.

 

You thought you'd nodded off

somehow losing track of time

it must be the sound of tyres on gravel

pressing lightly on the bed of your dreams.