Snowmen Built by Railway Tracks

The first time I've made it home after work and there has been light in the sky. The light was violet, fading to purple. Tasted as cold and beautiful as it looked. I caught the bus home, missed my stop and had to walk back a short way. I was glad I did as - not more than half an hour ago - a bloated moon hung heavy over the roofs of the houses. Caught in the gaze of lunar attention, I slipped the key into the lock of the front door, walked up those stairs with that milky-silver gaze tasting my imagined spine.
A glass of mercury, laced with ice-cubes, a sip of infinite drink of lemonade.

At work today, and looking out of the window between calls. Orange sunset on the buildings to the east of Brighton. Hospital spires and church wards, all set against that deadly cold of the sky. A sudden slipping back, the buildings like pictures from an old Ladybird book. Fragments of memories and flashes of childhood - Southside, Kinloss, that sacred hushed and sharp quiet of building snowmen by the railway tracks, ghost hunting with Carl Haslam and games of horror card top trumps on the front step of 66 Abbey Crescent. Those buildings on the hill put me in mind - and I don't know why - of the landscape surrounding the green fenced enclave of Southside also. Farmers fields and distant woods, one sandy knoll Craig named as Rabbits Hill.
I look for it on googlemaps but can't find it.

Because I catch the bus one stop too far I have to walk back along New Church Road. Instead of taking the normal entrance into the Mews I take the back entrance instead. This necessitates walking along a short dark track (there is a lamp here but it has been dead since I moved here last year). Another shift in time - another memory - kind of... or perhaps not, as it didn't feel like my memory anyway. It was something about the cold, and walking through a patch of sudden darkness, all blue and luxurious, and the earth of the track frozen hard. Some memory, some resonance that remained just out of reach (Walking through the woods? Walking through a field in Worcestershire? A patch of frozen ice in the back garden of my grandparents house in Stone?)

The flat is almost silent. Just those noises that remind the listener -myself anyway- of silence; the sound of the cooker and the boiler, my fingers on this keyboard.
The flat has the air of a place where someone is sleeping.
I don't know why.
The sound of a door opening, someone -Andy- moving about.
Then silence again, and just those noises that remind me of silence remaining.