ARGYLL-BASED reader Rebecca Pine was prompted to write this poem on returning home by bus from a Sunday afternoon concert in Glasgow and pondering how night-time differently affects town and country.

BEFORE THE CLOCKS

Even before the clocks are going back

the evening light is giving way too soon

to skies that darken stealthily.

Those city trees that give a thought to autumn

turn sudden reds that burn beneath

the awful glow of lamps, the pseudo day

of path and pavement, city life and way.

Now homeward bound the country parcel bus

makes lonely headway past returning fleets

of city-zens to all their city nests,

rest boxes, flats or burrows. Far away

the country-dweller’s cottage darkly waits

beneath the gaze of moon and stars,

three hours of time, eternity of space.