A Dead Lamp Beyond the Arch

Winds up tonight. Look through the gaps in the red curtains in the living room. Watch the lanterns hanging over the Mews shift in the breeze. The windows of the flats opposite ours are unlit, are never lit, and if I crane my neck out of the window, to my left I see the Butchers on the road. A blue light shines in the window, slightly illuminating the hospital clean surfaces now empty of meat. If I look right, I see the archway at the end of the Mews. On the archway is a small figure of a stone lion. The archway shows nothing but darkness. I do not know what is there, some dead end back-lane perhaps, some passage connected to the workshops below us. There is a broken street lamp there I cannot see once night falls. I wonder what broken street lamps might dream of?
The flat tonight is full of rattling; the cat flap down the steep stairs to the front door, something in the attic, something out the back, the windows somewhere.
Getting later, time creeping up to 1:00am.
There is a silence below the wind, and though I'm not even a half an hour walk from the bedsit, it feels like a county away. I imagine this room to be in a building ringed by trees that grow too close to the windows. Easy to imagine this late at night as we move into the small hours. 1:00am is forever. I can't imagine there being any other time.
And there is a dead but dreaming street lamp near. I wonder if its light has flicked on, just for a short time, lighting that back lane for the sound of footsteps hidden just below the wind.